


A Fae Inquest

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Druids, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Gnomes, M/M, Magic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 12:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16219124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Victorian Age, Reverend Arthur Pendragon is sent to the Land of the Fae, a newly discovered province, with a mission, and it's not converting the magical populace. Amid enchantments and danger he will have to find out who killed his predecessor.





	A Fae Inquest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlinsdeheune (sindhunathi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sindhunathi/gifts).



> A shower of thanks goes to my betas, Crideon and Nympha_alba, who salvaged a story written through tough times. Without you lovely people this would be much worse. I thank you for your knowledge, commitment, and dedication. You're stars shining bright! Many hugs sent your way.
> 
> I also want to thank my artist, merlinsdeheune, who is lovely and sweet and gifted. A truly amazing person to talk to. I'm honoured she chose me and my story, even before it was a thing. Nobody could be more moved. Due to a little impediment, her art is upcoming, but I'm sure you'll love it once it's here!
> 
> Finally I'll forever show my gratefullness to the mods for making this fest possible!

Winter, 1881

 

The carriage stopped rolling and the gravel ceased crunching. The door gaped open and a liveried servant took out the steps. Arthur ducked out and looked around. The church was all stone, seventeenth century, with a large body and a narrow bell tower atop which sat a weather vane. A lane ran in between it and the house. The latter was a more recent construction, red bricked and porched, with gables and arched leaded windows.

A servant led him inside, past a clean hall, along a corridor flooded by sunlight, and into a small antechamber featuring a damask lounge settee.

“The Bishop will soon be free to see you,” the servant said, before bowing and leaving the room.

Arthur sat on the settee and locked his hands together. He studied his surroundings. The space was orderly and bright. A window gaped at the back; before it stood a lectern with a black bound Bible open in the middle, a silken bookmark marking the spot. China cabinets lined the side walls. A bracket clock on the table sounded beside him, ticking seconds in the afternoon stillness.

When the clock struck five the servant reappeared, inviting Arthur to follow him. He ushered him into a room built out of a newer annex. The room was small and rather cramped. Bookshelves bowed under the weight of tomes among which Arthur picked out copies of Fordyce's sermons and Christian Review. Knickknacks and objects d'art covered the desk at which the Bishop sat.

The Bishop was a corpulent man with combed back grey hair and round spectacles sitting across his nose. He hadn't changed much from the last time Arthur had seen him. Perhaps his hair was whiter at the temples but that was it. The man appeared to have frozen in time. “Ah, Reverend Pendragon, it's been a long time.”

Arthur was aware of that. The last time they'd seen each other he had been freshly ordained, and the Bishop had been full of recommendations regarding Arthur's chosen profession. He'd instructed him on this and that score and wished him a full and long career. “Yes, sir,” Arthur said. “Six years.”

“At your age that isn't a long time.” The Bishop cleaned his spectacles. “The years weigh on one more as time passes.”

Arthur made a small gesture with his head. The Bishop's was a conversational platitude and not one Arthur had any intention of questioning. “I suppose that is true.”

“But I haven't summoned you here to talk about that.” The Bishop cut short on the pleasantries. “I suppose you know what this is about.”

“The mission, sir?” When Arthur had received the letter, he'd thought it was about that. He'd after all expressed an interest in the pursuit of the job.

“Indeed.” The Bishop gently coughed into his fist. “You petitioned for a more active evangelical role.”

Arthur had never liked sitting still. He'd always been a hands-on person. Those who knew him had wondered why he'd chosen the church at all when he could have embarked on a military career. But Arthur had always had his faith and the choice had seemed easy at the time. His job did come with its burdens, with its difficulties, but Arthur wouldn't go back and opt for another type of path. “Yes sir. Have you found me something?”

“That I have.” The Bishop handed Arthur a pile of letters. “There's been an opening recently.”

Arthur straightened. He didn't want to open the envelopes himself. He preferred relying on verbal communication “Where is it? Japan? China? Indonesia?”

“None of those locations,” the Bishop said, wetting his lips seemingly in preparation for a long speech. “I'm sending you to the Land of the Fae.”

Arthur's eyebrows climbed upwards. “The Land of the Fae? I thought there was an incumbent.”

The Bishop nodded. “There used to be one. Reverend Fisher recently died in office.”

Arthur had never met the former incumbent, hadn't even known his name, but he still wasn't happy to hear of his passing. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

The Bishop hummed. “Yes, well. He needs replacing and you will be going.”

Arthur rolled his shoulders back and sat up, ready to take up the burden. “Of course, I will do as I'm told.”

“I had no doubt about it, I had no doubt.” The Bishop pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Though there is something you need to know before you take up the post.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, sir?”

“This post is not as straightforward as it might seem.” The Bishop seemed to hesitate on his next words, as if he hadn't planned what to say – which seemed odd – or as if he didn't know quite how to convey his information. Given that the Bishop was Arthur's superior his demurring appeared quite mysterious. “Your esteemed colleague, though older than you, didn't die of natural causes.”

“How did he die?”

The Bishop massaged his chest as if his thoughts pained him. “He was murdered.”

Arthur spluttered. Though missionaries did sometimes encounter hostile environments which they ran afoul of, he hadn't thought the Land of the Fae as quite so dangerous. “How do you know this? Have you any proof?”

The Bishop once again proffered Arthur the bundle of letters.

Arthur read the mid-section of the topmost one.

_Though, despite their initial reluctance, King Balinor and Queen Hunith have welcomed me, the rest of the population hasn't been quite as warm as the royals. The average Fae look on me with distrust. Pixies, gnomes and sylphs conceal themselves in communities hidden under the veil of magic, thus avoiding me, while elementals appear and disappear at their own whim before one can so much as open one's mouth, let alone proselytise. The priestly classes thunder anathema at me. My most bitter rival is Nimueh, the high priestess of the Triple Goddess, but the Druids, Aglain and Iseldir, are almost equally distrustful._

Arthur looked up from his reading. “That doesn't constitute proof.” It seemed more like an account of the situation in that part of the world than a threat. “It tells us he might have had detractors, but nothing more.”

The Bishop gestured. “Read the last letter.”

Arthur picked it up, reading through it quickly. “It seems like a normal letter to me.”

The Bishop leant forward, plucked the missive from his hand, and turned it around. “Look at that.”

It was a red-inked scrawl, the writing shaking, the penmanship tremulous, as if the author had palsy. It read, “they're coming for me.” Arthur raised his eyebrows at the Bishop.

“That’s just one such message. You’ll find them littered throughout the most recent letters. One message alone might be discounted, but taken together, it paints a dreadful picture.” He shuffled through some other letters, pointing out more troubling phrases.

Arthur looked up. “That does sound suspicious.” If the former missionary was dead and he'd written those messages, then there was reason to think there had been foul play. 

“Yes, indeed.” The Bishop was curt in his delivery. He steepled his fingers. “That's why I'm assigning you this post. You've a certain acuity, a certain rigour when it comes to your job. In the years you've held the post in Stapleford, I've never heard a complaint about you. That's why I want you to handle this.”

“This?” Arthur prompted him, needing it stated plainly.

“I want you to find out who killed your predecessor,” the Bishop said. “I want you to conduct an investigation. Quietly.”

Arthur understood the desire for clarity. If someone had murdered the previous incumbent, they had to know. Their entire diplomatic relationship with the Fair Folk might change depending on the results of such an investigation. And yet. “And if I find there is indeed a culprit?”

“We'll change our politics.” The Bishop's face got shadowed. “We'll retaliate.”

Arthur froze. Would retaliation imply war? Or a cessation of their ties to the Land of the Fae? Strange as they were, they’d already proven to be a great asset to the mortal world. “I don't think--”

“You don't need to think,” the Bishop snapped. His mouth narrowed and his eyes glinted with a darkened light. “I'll do the planning for you. Just be there. Your ship leaves the day after tomorrow.” The Bishop showed him the tickets. “Then you'll be on horseback.” The Bishop stood, effectively ending the meeting. “Those are your orders.”

Arthur stood too. He had little choice here, this was the life he had chosen. He could refuse, but he wasn't sure he could keep his current post if he did. Besides, he surely wanted to find out what had happened to his predecessor. It was a matter of justice, which appealed to him mightily. “I'll pack tonight, sir.”

With that he was dismissed.

****

Arthur dismounted. The forest around him was verdant and ripe. There were conifers and peach trees in bloom. Mediterranean pines and yews. Oaks and larches. It was a confluence of trees from different areas of the world. Birds with coloured plumage flitted from one branch to another, their bright tails visible as they flitted from height to height. The span of their wings was large, their brilliance rivalled only by the flowers that littered the grass. They were pink and yellow, lilac and orange, with striations like the rainbow. Butterflies floated around, resting their feet on flower stems and blades of grass, skipping around the portal like a giant cavorting force.

The portal itself was a greenery arch dotted with flowers. The air around it flickered and jumped, moving in waves and currents that shone like little stars. What was on the other side appeared faded and smudged, hard to make out. But the ether around the doorway was charged, the colours of objects around it heightened, their shape made of edges that trembled and shivered in the sunlight.

Arthur braced himself. He'd never crossed over before. Few people had ever done it. Ever since the passage had been discovered, the route had been used sparingly. Arthur didn't know whether that was because people feared the Fae or because they believed there would be nothing to gain by frequenting their lands. Ever since the Bishop had tasked Arthur with his new posting, he hadn't the time to wonder. He'd just packed, then travelled. His luggage had preceded him and would be awaiting his arrival on the other side – hopefully none the worse for wear having crossed over into the unknown. He hoped the same would hold for him and his mount. 

“Well, now the time has come to find out,” he told the horse, which neighed, as though it was nervous.

Arthur led the horse forward. It pawed the ground, halting in its tracks. Arthur had to pull on the reins to get it to move forward. By the time it had reached the portal, the horse's eyes had gone spirited and it resisted the pull. “Oh, come on now,” Arthur said. “We're on a mission. We have to go.”

The horse wasn’t mollified. Arthur offered it a treat. The horse gobbled it up but refused to be led forward. “It's just one more step across.” The closer he inched to the passage, the more Arthur could feel the charge in the air. It raised the small hairs on the nape of his neck, gave him goose bumps. Still, he encouraged the horse to move, tugging on its reins as it inched forward.

Then it happened. With his last step, he breached the portal. His body tickled, his stomach somersaulted, and his skin burned. A wave of nausea made him feel light-headed. He froze in place, two choices warring for dominance. Forward or back. His own world or the land of the Fae. At first, he felt so sick he wanted nothing more than to turn back, but then he thought of the task he'd been charged with and made himself master his own body. Eyes closed, body hot and then cold, he stepped into the portal more fully.

He lost all sense of direction, all sense of self. He felt as if he was coming apart, as if his constituent parts were undoing themselves, till he was nothing but pure sensation. He burned. He grew cold. He scattered himself over aeons, his soul crumbling into dust. And then he was remade, glued together again, the essence of him refuelled.

He staggered onto the forest floor, his spooked horse landing right after him.

When Arthur regained his balance, he looked around. The woods were green, an explosion of colour and hue. There were almost no shadows here, with light showered on almost every nook and cranny. Flowers carpeted the soil in tints that didn't exist on Earth and bark shone like gold scatterings in the lush environment.

Nearby, a carriage awaited Arthur. It was as round as a pumpkin, cut out of pale wood, and gilded all around. Four plumed horses, all white, were harnessed to the carriage, their bridles golden, and studded with diamonds.

Two footmen stood on the back step while the coachman sat on the front box.

When they saw Arthur, the footmen hopped down from their perch, came over to Arthur and bowed. Arthur realised they were identical. They had the same brown hair streaked with blue, the same button noses, and the same florid upturned moustaches. The first footman didn't acknowledge Arthur at all. He took Arthur’s horse, though, and mounted it. When it threatened to bolt, he placed his hand on its neck and the beast calmed down as though it had been shocked into compliance.

The second footman stepped forward. “Welcome to the Land of the Fae, Reverend Pendragon.”

Replying to the greeting in a similarly formal manner, Arthur bowed his head. He followed the footman to the coach and climbed inside. It was a plush conveyance with soft leather seats and wide red velvet cushions. Gilt tracery made in the shape of vines and leaves decorated the inside just as they had the outside. Once Arthur was settled, the carriage sprang into motion.

It crossed the forest, a rectilinear path opening before them, with a heavy growth of trees on either side. They were heavy with fruit and with blooms, their rich canopies brushing against the sides of the carriage. As the forest grew sparser the countryside came into view.

At first Arthur didn't feel as though he was that far away from home. Though greener, nature didn't seem to differ much from the vistas of England, so he experienced no great sense of displacement. Until they travelled past some farmhouses, that is. The buildings, in different shape and sizes, had little in common with English farmsteads. He saw boltholes cut out of tree trunks or giant mushrooms with chimneys sprouting out of their umbrellas. There were long-houses too and little houses built out of adobe. They stretched upwards and outwards, labyrinthine constructions that followed no rhyme or reason.

The road meandered through arable tracts of land, the furrows deep, the earth golden and orange, purple and green, the growing crops unrecognisable to Arthur's eye. His speedy departure had prevented all but a cursory overview of the land which would be his home for the foreseeable future, and that was more to aid in his packing rather than introduce him to this fantastical world.

They traversed several thousand acres of land before they finally came upon a burgh. Houses were clustered at the base of a hill, most of them half-timbered with sloping roofs, wooden doors and countless chimneys. The homes perched along the slope of the hill in an ascending pattern, bridges arching from one side of the knoll to the other with windmills hulking over bubbling streams, their vanes moving with the wind, blades rotating synchronously.

On top of it all the castle stood. It was a veritable stronghold rising above the peaks of this land. Its main body, subdivided in two wings seemingly growing out of the side of the hill, was white coated, studded with crenellated turrets, pinnacles, and whimsical spires topped by slate tiles. Battlements and dozens of windows fashioned as lancets opened on the valley below while gables, balconies and sculptures decorated the facade. An archway gave access to its interior courtyard.The carriage rolled under an archway which gave access to the keep’s interior courtyard. It was rectangular and paved with shiny stones that looked as ancient as the stars.

A two-story loggia rose on the south-west side, while the keep itself hulked opposite it. An orderly geometric pattern broke up the surface of the enclosure, a foil for the complex ornamentation of the buildings. Fountains had been built between them, water spilling at different heights, rushing out of the mouths of winged creatures and of proud standing unicorns.

When Arthur alighted, he was met by pages dressed in the most brilliant garb. They wore tunics and hose in a rainbow of colour and patterns, pointed leather shoes, and soft multi-hued hats. He had scarcely the time to look around himself before the doors of the keep opened and he was ushered inside.

A white staircase covered with red runners started at the end of a great airy hallway around which butterflies danced, courtiers lining its sides. Their garb was as magnificent as it was motley. Some ladies sported stiff elaborate ruffles while others wore plunging necklines. Some gentlemen donned tunics while others had opted for morning suits Arthur had seen in London shops but a few weeks ago. The difference lay in the colours chosen for these outfits. They came in pastel tones and jewel tones, in hues Arthur had never seen before and couldn't name. There were shades that reflected the tints of the earth, but with a shine and glitter, a brightness that wasn’t common in English fashion. Some of the garments sprouted actual flowers or grass; they let out bright patinas and shed a pollen-like substance whose tones were yet more vivid.

Arthur wanted to let his gaze linger, to examine these courtiers for hints as to their customs and manners. But Arthur knew that staring was terribly impolite, so he abstained from looking too intently at the marvels surrounding him. There would be time enough to take in the splendour of the court when his duty permitted.

Instead, he followed the pages into the throne room. It was vaulted and grand, three aisles leading up to a raised dais on which two thrones loomed, and on them sat the King and Queen of the Land of Fae. They were both human-like in appearance, possessing a stately aura. The King wore a heavy crown that shone on his head, the gems that encrusted it varying in hue, reflecting the sunlight that poured in from the central window. The Queen had a tiara that sparkled and twinkled, the sapphires that graced it bluer than the deepest ocean.

“Reverend Pendragon,” King Balinor said as Arthur bowed to him. “Welcome to the Land of the Fae.”

“My lord.” Arthur straightened out of his bow. “I'm honoured to be in your presence and glad to have reached my destination.”

“We're equally glad to have you here,” the Queen added. “We hope your stay will be fruitful.”

Arthur smiled at the Queen’s welcoming tone. “I hope so too.” The courtiers in the throne room murmured among themselves.

“Since we are sure you have tasks to attend to,” King Balinor intoned, “we won't keep you here long.”

Arthur noted the King had not mentioned the late Reverend's demise. “I'm at Your Majesty's disposal,” Arthur said, lowering his head.

“While we don't approve of your mission or your religion,” the King spoke sternly, “we have signed a treaty with your country that makes provisions for your presence in our land. Therefore, your stay is not only sanctioned by us, but also protected by us.”

Arthur heard a subtle emphasis on the word ‘protected’ and hoped that was the truth. While the King did not refer in any way to the late Reverend Fisher, perhaps his court was as troubled by his demise? Arthur would ponder that thought later. “My Lord,” he replied simply.

“Given that you're new to this world, we shall help you acclimate.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Might I ask how, your Majesty?”

“You will be given a servant,” the King announced.

“I'm sure you'll find him agreeable,” the Queen added. She smiled brightly at Arthur, her eyes glittering with pleasure.

Arthur bowed again. “I'll be glad of the help,” he spoke truly. He had packed as many books as he could find on this strange land, which he had yet to read, but books were only so useful. Having a dedicated guide and servant would be far more effective in getting him up to speed. He hoped this servant wasn’t a stiff old bore.

The King tapped a foot. “He’s a changeling,” he added. “He will guide you through the hurdles of adapting to life in this land.”

The King made a gesture, and the Chamberlain clapped his hands. At the sound, a man walked in from an adjacent room. He was tall, though not overly so, with a slender build and the smile of a witless fool. His hair, partially hidden by a plumed court hat, appeared raven dark while his eyes shone a guileless blue. All-in-all he appeared human, but then again, as a changeling he would have to. Otherwise he would never have been able to pass for a human child.

Arthur may not know everything about the land of Fae, but changelings were something every English child was brought up to pity and despise. The prevalence of changelings had been on the decline ever since the accords between the Earth countries and the Land of Fae had been established, but the stories persisted. For some reason never made clear in the tales, human infants were scandalously taken from their cradles by the Fae, and in their place, exact copies were left to be raised by the families. These copies – changelings -- were not human, but it was nearly impossible to tell the difference. Only many years later would these doppelgangers swap places with their human victims again. The whole business was deeply distressing to Arthur, and he resolved to be vigilant around this strange creature.

When the changeling appeared, courtiers whispered more frantically with each other, leaning in to exchange comments about the situation. Arthur couldn't hear what they said but knew this was a test of his diplomacy. His English manners would have to see him through until he could grow more accustomed to the ways of the Fae. He crossed over to the changeling, making sure he wore a pleasant smile.

“Reverend Arthur Pendragon, at your service,” he intoned as he shook his hand.

“I'm Merlin,” the changeling replied, his lips turning up as if he'd just heard something funny.

Before Arthur could say another word, the King interrupted them. “I hope you will get along satisfyingly happily.” He cast a severe glance at the crowd of retainers still speaking in undertones to each other, as if to cut down on their gossiping. Their mutterings persisted, despite his harsh glance. “We expect no incidents to happen whilst you hold your office.” Still no mention of the late incumbent's fate. “We'll expect regular reports from you, however. Merlin will brief you as to what's required of missionaries in these lands. The list, be assured, isn't long. A carriage is waiting for you outside.” The King paused for a breath and exchanged a glance with his Queen. “We wish you a safe journey.”

And so it was that Arthur found himself royally brushed off. Now his real mission could begin. Arthur mentally prepared himself for the future that awaited him. He bowed and, with Merlin in tow, he left the palace.

 

**** 

During the first part of the voyage to Arthur’s new home, Arthur and Merlin remained silent. Arthur looked out the carriage window at the fantastical ever-changing landscape, while Merlin looked steadily at Arthur, a half-smile on his face. It was a pleased, slightly smug smile, a diverted moue that lit up his face and irritated Arthur no end with its persistence. He tried ignoring Merlin’s unwavering regard, but at last Arthur lost his patience with his companion’s rudeness.

At last Arthur could stay patient no longer.“What!” Though he could have been politer about it, Arthur was unnerved by Merlin’s scrutiny. Then again, Merlin was still staring at him, which wasn't exactly civil either. As a servant assigned to Arthur by the royal house, Merlin really ought to have shown more respect. Given Merlin’s menial position, Arthur felt justified in his outburst.

“It's just,” Merlin told him, still wearing that ridiculous, contented smirk, “you're the first human I've seen in a very long time.”

“But you're a changeling,” he countered. Arthur had no use at all for the creatures. He could rationalize that most changelings were swapped as very young children, and thus scarcely to be held responsible, it wasn't a practice Arthur could condone. “You should be quite used to humans.”

Unperturbed, Merlin shrugged his shoulders. “Well, in my daily life I don't see many of you, erm, anymore that is.” The inane expression he wore didn't change. “I still find you interesting.”

Arthur pulled at the starched collar of his shirt. “That’s not disturbing at all,” he quipped.

Merlin didn't reply to that. “I'll explain the rules to you now, I suppose?”

Everything in this world seemed odd indeed, but if his predecessor had acclimated, then Arthur would, as well. “The King mentioned the list was short,” he stated with confidence. Merlin had him feeling wrong-footed, he wanted to get back control of their interaction.

“That’s right,” Merlin said, eyes wrinkling at the corners with merriment. “But a few are quite important.”

Arthur nodded. “Well, then, carry on.”

“First of all--” Merlin slid forwards in his seat so their feet touched. “You mustn't eat any food here.”

“No food, right.” Arthur arched an eyebrow. “So I am to eventually die of starvation then?”

“No! Um, you're supposed to add salt.” Merlin mimed upending a shaker.

“And if I should forget about the salt?” Arthur asked, dreading the answer.

“You won't die,” Merlin said in a conciliatory manner. “But you won't be able to leave the Land of the Fae ever again.”

Arthur blanched. While he meant to stay put for the time being, he also meant to return to his native England one day. He understood the nature of his duty, but he still had secret hopes and plans. “I'll remember to add salt to all I eat,” he promised.

Merlin leaned forward to pat him on the knee. “Don't worry. I'm a changeling. I need to do the same, so I'll remind you.”

Arthur frowned. “If you were already exchanged though, I thought that once you're back, it's over.”

“Oh, it is,” Merlin said, “we, just, er, keep it up. The tradition, I mean. That's what we changelings do.” Merlin finished with a confident nod.

Arthur didn't question further, just shook his head with a sigh. He’d been determined to pick up the ins and outs of Fae life as he went, and ought to prepare himself for more such odd customs. He’d barely had enough time to sort out his own affairs, let alone dive into another culture, before he found himself on his truculent horse in front of the portal. Merlin remained silent for a while, permitting Arthur to resume his scrutiny of the world passing by outside the window. At length, Merlin spoke again. “Now for politics.”

“Politics, of course.” If Reverend Fisher had met his death because of a political misstep, then Arthur had to learn as much as possible about the administration of the Land of the Fae to avoid the same fate. “I know that fealty is owed to the King and Queen,” he began.

Merlin reddened a bit, scratching at his neck. “Well, yes, but there are other considerations.”

England's political system was complicated enough. Arthur could only imagine how such interactions unfolded in a magical land. “Tell me about them.”

“The Druids are pretty peaceful,” Merlin said. “They believe in a natural... religion, you would call it. But they're not to be crossed. If you violate one of their tenets--” Merlin grimaced. “Well, that wouldn't be good at all.”

Arthur made a mental note. No crossing the Druids, not if he could avoid it. It wouldn't be easy since he subscribed to another religion and there were sure to be points of dispute between them, but Arthur had always found it easy to be respectful of other beliefs, and though he might debate he would never wilfully offend. The fact he was also here to make converts didn't worry him. He would not force anyone. The Druids must eventually see that as a sign of good will. “I understand.”

“The population here is varied, to say the least.” Merlin looked sheepish. “There are small creatures and giant creatures…” Arthur sat back as Merlin spoke at length about his fellow inhabitants of Fae Land. He had several books which would help him remember all that the changeling spoke of, so for now, Arthur let Merlin’s excited ramblings wash over him as he only half-listened. Merlin seemed quite knowledgeable, for a servant, and Arthur found himself grateful for the consideration shown by the royals. Arthur’s attention was caught by Merlin’s next words. “Some closely resemble humans--”

“Like you.” Arthur couldn't refrain from pointing that out. If Arthur hadn't known Merlin was a changeling, he wouldn't have taken him for anything other than human. The sense of discrepancy was potent. Arthur knew the reality of it. Merlin was different from him. But he couldn't say he perceived this at an instinctual level. He felt he and Merlin were quite the same. But perhaps that was the point about changelings. They were meant to deceive. Perhaps the royals hadn’t done him any favours.

Merlin nodded. “And then there's Nimueh. You definitely need to know about her.”

The former incumbent had mentioned her. She was, Arthur realised, important to his investigation. He sat up straighter, paying close attention now. “What can you tell me about her?”

“She's very beautiful and very powerful.” Merlin seemed to have sunk into his memories. “I met her, once when I was still young--”

“I thought you were on earth when you were young?” Arthur interrupted.

Merlin frowned, taken aback. “That was, er, when I returned.”

Arthur shook his head at Merlin, not sure whether he was truly foolish, or just absent-minded. He would have time to learn more about Merlin, but for now, he wanted more information about Nimueh. “But what about her?”

“Nimueh is High Priestess in the ancient cult of the Triple Goddess. Because of her role, Nimueh is very unbending,” Merlin said. “She used to be more pliable, excused people who didn't strictly adhere to ritual. But, as time passed, she became more and more inflexible. That's when her relationship with the King and Queen started to go sour.”

“So, they're not on friendly terms?” His own interview with the King had been too brief for him to gather any personal knowledge of the King’s character, so he accepted Merlin’s insights for now.

“Well, Balinor is a great king.” Merlin straightened, his chest stood out, as he puffed it up. “He can mediate just about any diplomatic crisis, and de-escalate troubles, make it so the situation doesn't worsen. But he hasn't been friendly with Nimueh for a long while.”

Arthur had better make sure he didn't forget that either. He was trying to get a fair picture of this strange realm and knowing where all players stood in relation to each other was rather important.

Arthur was preparing to formulate another question, when their carriage slowed to a walk. Alerted to the change, Arthur looked out of the window and saw little besides a bank of fog swirling around, rising from the ground in thick white shrouds. Shadows hulked beyond, hiding a shape Arthur could barely make out. The silence that dominated the area made the spot seem ominous.

Yet the more Arthur looked the more he was able to make out, till at last the contours of a fortified castle made themselves visible. Could this be his new home?

As the strange mist swirled and eddied, Arthur observed walls overgrown with lichen and turrets that thrust upwards. The main body of the house was simple in structure, an upright rectangle out of which towers grew. Stone was placed on stone, broken up by mullioned windows that overlooked the access roads.

Merlin stuck his head out of the vehicle, and Arthur heard him sigh. “It's different from what it used to be.”

Arthur blinked. “You've been here before?”

“Once.” Merlin still had his head out of the window. “But it was much cosier then.”

Something, Arthur knew, had happened to change the place.

****

They got off the carriage, the coachman and footmen resuming their positions and driving away, disappearing into the pervasive fog. Arthur spared a thought for the horse he had ridden to this land, hoping it might have been brought here along with his belongings. He took off his hat and stood, observing his new abode. It was forbidding and foreboding, completely different from his little country house in Stapleford.

His old house had been overgrown with ivy and wild roses. It had had a garden that always smelt like spring and cosy wee rooms that made one feel at home. With a pang, Arthur wished himself there. He thought with longing of the place, remembering all its positive characteristics.

He quashed those feelings – and crumpled his hat with them. He had known what he'd embarked upon from the moment the Bishop had made his plans for him. He had always put his duty first and now was not the time to change that.

“Well, let's get inside,” Arthur announced, drowning his emotions in action. He rapped firmly on the door.

Bolts were drawn, chains rattled, and the bulky door opened. Behind it appeared a small woman who wore a welcoming smile at odds with the gloomy ambience. When she saw them, she curtsied deeply, bowing her head so that a mass off ringlets fell forward, escaping her bun. That was when Arthur noted the pointed ears, from which small earrings in the shape of a Celtic knot dangled.

Arthur blushed at the deference. While he was of good family, he was nothing but a country reverend, so he hadn't encountered any bowing or scraping in his life. Besides, his vocation urged a life of humility. “This is not needed, madam.”

The woman stayed put, her hands curling around her apron's folds.

Merlin came to the rescue. “You may stand at ease, Gwen.” He reached out for her, touching her shoulder. “We've talked about this, haven't we? How there’s no need for deference?” He regarded her intently, his eyes opened wide as though willing her to remember what he had said.

Gwen became flustered, shifting from foot to foot and wringing her hands. “Right, right, yes. I got that message, yes. And I told myself I shouldn't be too lavish in my greetings. But I forgot. Because who can forget who--”

Merlin cleared his throat loudly. “Yes, indeed. Reverend Pendragon--” He palmed Arthur's shoulder, taking a liberty that surprised Arthur. “--The Reverend isn't used to this sort of behaviour. Why don’t we make him feel at home?”

“Of course! What was I thinking?” She finally looked away from Merlin and at Arthur. “Welcome to the Mission, sir. I aired the house and prepared the rooms for you and--” She eyed Merlin, sounding uncertain as to how to proceed.

“Me, of course.” Merlin smiled. His smile was a little wild, a little strange.

“And you of course,” Gwen concluded with a bright smile. Arthur found her charming. “I did my best but I’m afraid there's not a thing I can do about the fog hanging about the house.”

Gwen showed them around. Despite its off-putting exterior the house was inviting. It was spotlessly clean, and the furniture carefully arranged. The living room had a southern aspect and reminded Arthur of English homes, with wallpaper covering the walls, plush armchairs facing each other, doilies decorating tables upon which knickknacks stood. It was almost as though he hadn't left his country at all.

Gwen must have noticed the effect his surroundings had on Arthur, for she murmured, “the house was set up so as to appeal to Mr Fisher, who was--” She lowered her head. “Poor soul, who was an Englishman.”

“I understand.” Arthur checked out the room. “It's very cozy, thank you.”

“I do hope you like it.” Gwen smiled. “I did my best trying to make it nice for you.”

Arthur preferred less cluttered settings. His cottage in Stapleford had been very plain, with only essentials put on display. Having an active life style, that involved daily jaunts to attend the less fortunate, and long hours of charity work, he liked the simplicity in his home. But pointing that out now would have been extremely rude.

“I think it's a nice reconstruction,” Merlin said, looking around. “My people went to great lengths to please the incumbents.”

Gwen strode over to the far side of the room and pulled open the curtains. There was precious little light outside, so nothing but a light scattering of dust particles streamed in. The railings of a little balcony became visible, with flowers in pots sitting against their breadth.

Moving them on, Gwen showed them the other chambers. There was a long corridor that split the house in two wings. Along its walls lords and ladies stared out. They all bore arms. Arthur had never set eyes on this particular crest before – everything was new to him in this kingdom – but he supposed it belonged to the reigning royal family. Most of these aristocrats had dark hair and light eyes, soft mouths, and a strong facial bone structure. They were depicted in their finery, but they didn't all stand idle. Some had been drawn fighting, others writing, some reading, one plucking flowers. It wasn't standard royal portraiture as it was done in England.

He turned to Merlin. “Are they the royal family? They all seem industrious, very active.”

“They don't rule like your monarchs do,” Merlin said, “by divine right. Rather, they rule by virtue of an accord with the people. That's why they're always doing something. They must constantly show their good will.”

Arthur, used to the strictures of Empire, had a hard time imagining this concept in England, which in spite of the presence of Prliament wasn't very democratic, he had to admit Naturally, he knew of republics, like France, but the concept was as foreign to him as the citizenship of that country. He couldn't say he didn't approve of the Fae King's stance, but it was still somewhat of a novelty to him. “And you agree with the system?”

Looking at the portraits of past rulers, Merlin straightened. “For the longest time I couldn't understand the concept of Kingship. I thought no man or woman should tower over another.” He wetted his lips. “I prefer to think our rulers are actually servants of the Fae folk. I can live with that.”

Before Arthur could remark that Merlin sounded like a revolutionary, Gwen herded them forward, escorting them into Arthur's bedroom. It wasn't an enormous room, but it was spacious enough, with an uncarved wooden four poster, a solid wardrobe, and a pitcher and basin set in the corner. A leather-bound Bible sat on the nightstand close to the bed. It appeared worn, the cover creased, the pages yellowed. Either Gwen had put it there to please him, or it belonged to the previous incumbent.

A little room adjacent to Arthur's stretched towards the south side of the building. Gwen glanced briefly at the room, then seemed ready to move on. Merlin did not follow, but instead regarded the tiny room with a smile.

“This is meant for the missionary's servant, isn't it, Gwen? I shall occupy it,” he declared.

Gwen seemed startled for a moment, then bumbled out the words, “of course, of course.”

After that, Gwen departed, giving them time to settle in. Arthur opened his box and started filling drawers with items belonging to him. In the little cubicle beside Arthur's bedroom, Merlin was busy setting up his own space to his heart's content.

Without his noticing, hours passed, and dinner time came along, with sweet smells wafting up from the kitchens. Gwen had apparently worked hard to prepare him a welcome dinner. Arthur sat alone at the head of the long rectangular table that dwarfed the dining room, his seat facing the fireplace.

Fine aromas gusting through from the kitchen as Merlin walked in carrying a silver tray. Arthur's mouth started watering with anticipation. On the tray rested a glazed turkey surrounded by a bed of beets and potatoes. Arthur started fantasising about cutting into the meat. Eyes on the platter, which he was holding on to by the handles, elbows out, Merlin advanced. He had nearly got to the table, when he tripped over the carpet. The tray, now lifted over Merlin's head, swayed, and the turkey, together with a shower of side dishes, went flying, landing on the floor with a loud splat.

“Oh no!” Merlin shouted, the useless tray dangling in his grip.

“Merlin, what sort of servant are you?” His stomach growling, Arthur did not even try to soften his criticism. “You're so clumsy you're inept!” he thundered.

Gwen, who'd come to see what was going on, cupped her mouth, an expression of horror etched on her face.

Merlin bit his lip, ruffled his own hair, and attempted a mollifying look. “I can clean it up?”

“I should think you would clean it up.” Arthur gestured at the food scattered on the floor in a pool of its juices. “But I remain without dinner.”

Gwen bit her lip, wringing her hands while glancing from Merlin to Arthur before blurting, “Eggs! There are eggs in the larder. I can make you an omelette, Reverend.” Arthur smiled at her.

“That will do, Gwen. I'm sorry your first efforts went wasted.” He glared at Merlin, pointing at the mess on the floor. “As for you. Clean this up. Then you're dismissed for the night.”

Merlin had already knelt and picked up a potato, when Gwen dashed forward. “You shouldn't be doing that!” she said in a high, alarmed tone that seemed quite uncharacteristic of her calm manners. “I'll pick it up.”

“Let me help.”

Gwen shook her head. “Oh no.” She quickly raked up the scattered vegetables with her hands. “I'm doing just fine.”

“No, Gwen, really.” Merlin's hands tangled with Gwen's, spilling the gathered vegetables back onto the floor.

Arthur palmed his forehead and groaned, picturing Gwen and Merlin arguing till morning. “Let Merlin help you, Gwen. After all, he made the mess.”

“See?” Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Our master has spoken.”

Gwen finally consented to having Merlin help her. He contributed little, but one couldn't say he wasn't trying. Before too long they had both retreated to the kitchens, the floor clean of all food. Later Gwen came back with a plate of eggs and a bottle of wine, which she served Arthur herself.

“Don't forget to salt the food,” Merlin said, before retiring to the kitchen with Gwen.

Arthur eyed the salt cellars. There were three, one tall, one short, one cubical, as if to make sure he wouldn't forget. And that more than anything served to remind Arthur how strange this land was, how foreign. No matter how much the interior of the house might look like home, no matter how nice Gwen, or even admittedly, Merlin were, their behaviour and customs were odd, the land of Fae mysterious. Potentially dangerous, too, judging by Reverend Fisher’s untimely end. He would do well to always remember that, or, he had a feeling, he wouldn't be long for this world.

 

****

Arthur was used to starting the day with a cup of tea and a copy of his regular newspaper. Here in Fae Land that wasn't possible. Adding salt to any morning beverage made it as disgusting as his wine had been at dinner. He had only managed a small sip before setting the glass aside. Plus, the Fae had nothing resembling a morning newspaper. They published magic treatises and poetry folios, the occasional scathing libel about courtiers, but no news to speak of. Instead, he ate a savoury pie and drank a glass of grapefruit juice, which masked, though barely, the taste of the salt it contained. Arthur was cleaning the crumbs off his plate, when he told Merlin, who was hovering around ready to assist, “I want to meet the Druids.”

“The Druids?” Merlin made a face, as if he had a stake in the matter. “Why?”

Arthur looked up from his plate, taking in Merlin's surprised, curious expression. Ordinarily, he might have satisfied his servant's curiosity. But someone had killed his predecessor. This meant no question; no curiosity could be presumed harmless. Arthur would assume that everyone was against him, that everyone had a stake in Arthur’s disappearance from Fae, until proved otherwise. And though mistrusting Merlin, an employee of the royals, meant distrusting the King and Queen, his hosts, he couldn't bring himself to reveal all his plans to the changeling. “Do I have to explain myself to you?”

Merlin flushed red, tipping the teapot he was carrying so that a fine stream of tea trickled out of its beak. “Oh no,” Merlin said, eyeing the mess he'd made. He crouched down, preparing to mop up the spillage with the rag he had stuck in his waistband, but toppled forward, the teapot he was holding shattered, the remaining liquid oozing out in a pool. “Oops. I’ve made it worse,” he cried.

“Oh, but you're an idiot!” It was contrary to all diplomacy, insulting the servant the Fae King had foisted upon him, but he just couldn't resist. Arthur had had such a simple breakfast, serving him should have been nothing but easy. How Merlin could mismanage that was a sheer mystery.

Once Merlin had raked up the shards and cleaned up the spillage, he sat at the table across from Arthur with a frown that wasn't too hostile. Rather than point out the impropriety of Merlin sitting at his master’s table, he chose to focus on his mission.

“So where can I find the Druids?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, they move about,” Merlin said, gesticulating rather wildly. “They live off the land, so when resources dry up they move on to new environs. They're very conscious to limit the damage they may wreak on the environment.”

“So, you have no idea where they are?” Arthur would have to ask Gwen. Or enquire of the royals. He didn't know whether they would answer a letter, but it was worth trying. The Land of the Fae was vast and trying to trace the Druids without any help would take him too long.

“I didn't say that,” Merlin countered. “But you really ought to be nicer to me if you want my help,” he snapped. Merlin left the room before Arthur could respond to such a bold statement. Arthur was forcefully reminded that he was no longer in England, where servants did not put on airs. Perhaps utterly inept service and talking back were routine in Fae? Perhaps Gwen was the anomaly? He shook his head and resolved to maintain calm efficiency in the face of the oddness around him.

Despite Merlin’s snippiness, the carriage was ordered, and Arthur stepped into it still ignorant of his destination. Merlin had refused to share, muttering that Arthur hadn't been polite enough with him to deserve being enlightened. He also maintained he had promised the Druids not to reveal the location of their settlement. Arthur would have questioned him during the drive, but Merlin sat next to the coachman on the box and Arthur had to content himself with looking at the vista that unfolded, once they cleared the fog.

They passed through a forest as uncommon as any Arthur had ever seen. The trees, for one, were blue here, trunks and all. The grasses weren't an ordinary green but a ghostly white. Rivers sparkled as if they were made of diamonds, and iridescent moths danced above every surface like lanterns, lighting up darkened paths between heavy foliage where sunlight could not reach.

The carriage stopped in an empty clearing, which looked rather ordinary. These oaks, while taller than common ones, were the appropriate colour. The soil, though moist looking and appearing freshly turned, wasn't any different from that of any English wood. But the place didn't look like a camp. There was no temporary housing, no tents or animals, and no sign of any druids. Yet he heard Merlin declare to the driver they had arrived at their destination.

Arthur stepped out of the conveyance. He told Merlin, not without some measure of annoyance, “Yyou've got the wrong place.”

Merlin hopped off the box and dismissed the coachman before Arthur could have a say in it. “You man of little faith.” He rolled his eyes hard. “When will you learn that the Land of the Fae is not like your native country, that we don't live by the same rules?”

Arthur took a moment to consider this. Merlin was technically right, but Arthur wasn't prepared to admit as much, so he deflected. “How it is you are so accustomed to Fae rules considering you lived most of your life pretending to be human?”

Merlin turned so he was facing the centre of the clearing, ignoring Arthur’s jibe. He straightened, chest sticking out like a soldier's on parade. In his servant livery it seemed a little incongruous, but Arthur had to admit that in that pose Merlin displayed a presence that made itself felt. He held up both hands and thundered, “I, Merlin, ask admittance of the Druids in the name of the King and upon request of Reverend Arthur Pendragon. I hereby swear we mean the Druid folk no harm and shall obey their laws and tenets.”

Arthur watched in wonder as the air shimmered as the echo of Merlin's words was borne by the wind. Ripples made the ether flicker, reality stretched and shortened, dilated and contracted, while the atmosphere shimmered in and out of sight. At last these distortions stopped, but new objects had appeared in view.

The clearing was no longer empty. A series of tents were pitched in several rows around a square while huts had been built closer to the tree line. The tents were large, made of thick canvas, while the huts were small and rather ramshackle, with open doorways and windows patched closed with hides.

In the square formed by the circle of tents men and women bustled, children played amid strutting poultry and roaming pigs. The people were simply dressed, their clothes were home-spun and darned in places, their cut linear and without ornament. The community seemed quite active with all the toing and froing they were doing.

Fires burned near anvils where horseshoes were pounded into shape, while horses nearby awaited their shoeing. Cauldrons steamed over open hearths, while food was distributed among the population. Elders sat with their canes between their legs and their hands on the pommel, regaling each other on morals and nature.

Two chiefs, distinguishable by their slightly more formal garb, made it over to them. One was tall, muscular, with dark skin and watchful eyes. The other's hair was almost grey all over though he didn't appear elderly at all, the same active wariness in his expression as in that of his companion.

“Welcome to our camp, visitors,” the first man said. “My name is Aglain and I'm one of the chief druids of this camp.”

The other Druid nodded courteously. “And I am Iseldir.”

Arthur, of course, had heard mention of both in the letters Reverend Fisher had sent out to the Bishop. He chose not to mention his predecessor but instead introduced himself, shaking hands with both men.

“Ah, a missionary from the other world.” Aglain studied Arthur warily, as if he represented a danger. “You're the second one we have encountered.” Arthur waited for Aglain to speak further about Revered Fisher but was disappointed.

“Indeed.” Iseldir picked up from where his companion left off, sensing a rising tension in Aglain’s silence. “We don't have much knowledge of your world, so forgive us if we commit any discourtesies in our dealings with you. Your kind is alien to us.”

“I'm no stickler for protocol, so there's no reason to worry,” Arthur assured them. He was here to learn about his predecessor’s interactions with the druids, garner clues that might shed light on his fate. Something the Druids had said, the way they'd spoken about lack of courtesy made him wary. “Haven't you heard the news?”

“What sort of news?” Iseldir asked.

“The missionary who preceded me died suddenly not one week ago.” Arthur broke the news abruptly, studying the Druids' reactions. In his letters Reverend Fisher had mentioned them as being unfriendly, even hostile.

Aglain and Iseldir quickly looked to Merlin for clarification. “What? He passed away?”

Shifting his weight about, Merlin cleared his throat. “I'm afraid so. The King and Queen are concerned about the consequences of that and mean to back the new incumbent,” he nodded at Arthur, “in his mission to settle in this land.”

Arthur was irritated with Merlin for taking control of the conversation, but forcefully reminded himself – yet again – he was on foreign soil, subject to strange ways. Instead, he focused on the task at hand. “In order to proceed with a clear conscience, I need to know more about the relationship between my predecessor and the druids.”

Aglain and Iseldir shared looks. Arthur could tell there was a silent conversation going on. They didn't look angry or put off, but Arthur suspected Druids weren't ones to advertise their feelings openly. Still Arthur thought they were settling on a strategy, agreeing about what they were going to say. Their hesitance itself seemed relevant. But whether that signalled foul play or simply a Druidic trait, Arthur couldn't fathom.

It was Aglain who answered. “He sometimes visited us, your predecessor.” He started walking, moving away from the centre of the camp, with Iseldir advancing abreast with him. Arthur followed, and Merlin came after them, forming the rear. He was a few steps behind Arthur but could likely hear what the Druids were saying.

“The first time he just asked access to our camp,” Iseldir said. “We were curious, so we invited him in.”

“We showed him around.” Aglain gestured at the settlement surrounding them. “We let him talk with some of our people.”

“At first,” Iseldir chimed in, expanding on Aglain's train of thought, “he seemed rather benign. He was kind and smiling, interested in listening as well as speaking.”

“At first?” Arthur prompted. “Did something change?”

Aglain watched his feet as he stepped onto the uneven ground that marked the borders of the compound. “As his visits increased – though they were never many – he changed his ways. Instead of asking information about our people, wanting to learn about us in a wholesome way, he started questioning our beliefs.”

“But Druids share them easily,” Merlin said, hurrying a bit to move closer to them. “You're open to everybody.”

Iseldir nodded, opening up his arms in a gesture of welcome. “You're of course correct. We welcome any creature interested in our tenets, we're happy to divulge them, and make our teachings known.”

“Then what was improper about Reverend's questions?” Arthur put up an eyebrow in query.

Sighing deeply, Aglain stopped in his tracks, the group stalling with him. “He started talking about his own views.” He shook his head, opening and closing empty hands that caught nothing but air. “We're not against learning others’ personal beliefs, let this be clear, but your predecessor's attitude wasn't acceptable to us.”

“I see. So, he talked about Christianity and his views on it?” Arthur asked.

Iseldir's tone grew brusquer. “He approached our folk with the intent of persuading them of his beliefs. He stopped listening to us. He made speeches and brought books that he shared amongst our young.”

“Some wanted to ban him then.” Aglain took the tale again, seamlessly continuing his fellow Druid's words. “But he wasn't acting against our established rules. So, we stayed our hand.”

“But he did something that further incensed you?” Arthur prodded.

“We overheard him say that his truth was the only truth worth hearing, that our beliefs were mere legends at best and lies at worst.” Iseldir frowned deeply, his eyes glowing amber in the sunlight. “He coaxed and cajoled our folk into supporting his stance, frightening them with threats of eternal punishment in your so-called hell. He permitted no opposing views to be spoken.”

So Reverend Fisher had been a dogmatic zealot. It was a common failing among preachers and missionaries, not knowing when to stop, not being respectful of a people's sense of tradition and community. Could that have led to Fisher's death? Could his zeal have marked him out as an enemy? At first glance the Druids seemed like a rural people grounded in nature, self-regulating, tranquil, and perhaps rather naïve. But Arthur sensed steel lay beneath their placid exterior. Could they have decided they wanted to do away with the unwelcome, unprotected intruder?

“We told him,” Aglain stated, his mouth pursed with distaste, “that he must cease his inveigling if he wanted access to us. He declared that saving our souls was his duty and that he couldn't abstain. Our children, according to him, were at risk of damnation. That was the singular word he used.”

“And that was when you banned him?” Merlin added, stumbling as he spoke, but righting himself as he came level with the Druids.

“Indeed.” Iseldir put a steadying hand on Merlin. “We believed we had no other choice.” Iseldir shot a stern glance both at Arthur and Merlin. “And what of you, Reverend Pendragon, do you plan to continue your predecessor’s unwelcome ways?”

Merlin caught Arthur’s gaze and arched an eyebrow, as though awaiting the explanation himself. Merlin knew of Reverend Fisher’s death, but Arthur could not be certain he knew of the suspicions surrounding it.

Nevertheless, Arthur tried to be as truthful as possible. “I mean to have a clear idea of the history between our people. I want nothing other than that from you.” If the Druids had killed his predecessor, Arthur wanted them to be held accountable. But if they were innocent, then he meant to build a decent relationship with them. “That's why I've come.”

“In that case you shall be our guest.” Aglain held up a forefinger. “But we shall not abide attempts at talking our people into your beliefs.” At Arthur’s sharp nod, they made their way back to the main encampment, the druids silent for now.

Arthur and Merlin were invited to partake in a Druid meal. It took place in a tent, but they had no table nor chairs. They ate while seated on the grass, though Arthur was given a soft cushion as a concession. The food came in bowls with a central platter for communal picking. The bread was soft and warm from the oven, the brightly coloured vegetables fresh from the patch being cultivated outside. There were no meats, Aglain told them, because they didn't practice the killing of animals.

As the meal began, Merlin surreptitiously passed Arthur a salt shaker. As they ate, a chorus of older women began singing a song that was both haunting and melodious. Arthur was so captivated by it that for a while he forgot to eat in spite of his hunger. As the entertainment proceeded to storytelling by the elders, Arthur focused on eating, relishing the flavours of the dishes he'd been given.

The food wasn't the only pleasure to be had. The tales being told were equally interesting. They were like creation myths only for the Druids. As a man of the cloth, Arthur understood their religious import. And though the wording was simple, the significance was not. On the basis of the first few words Arthur understood that nature came first for the Druids. It spoke and took form, guided and protected its creatures, its worshippers.

“The winter I'm talking about was harsh,” one of the old crones was saying. “All of Fae Land was covered in snow, the blue trees were crystallised in ice, which made them look white. The soil could not be broken, be it for plough or spade, and nothing could be sown or ripped from the ground.” Musical instruments took to playing a soft accompaniment to her tale, and the crone closed her eyes and suited her voice to the music. “The children were starving. They dug into the hard earth for scraps of food, and parents went hungry so their offspring might thrive. Men and women became sacks of bones, no meat to them, muscle wasting.”

A group of children prompted her to continue, “what happened then, Mother?”

“One of the villagers railed against the skies and the earth, against the waters of the rivers that kept freezing, and against the moon and stars that watched on without helping.” She paused dramatically.

Arthur nearly asked her to continue, but the same children, in what was likely a well-rehearsed part, pressed the old crone for more of the story. 

The woman indulged them.“One night someone appeared in the hut of the complainer. The presence was neither woman nor man, dressed in a mantle of silver, their skin papery and shining like diamonds. 'Druid, you spoke out against the earth and the moon,’ it said. ‘You declaimed against their injustice and remonstrated in your heart of hearts against their very essence.’” The crone's voice had deepened as she voiced the spirit. It now went as soft as reeds as she spoke for the Druid. “’But I'm hungry and I go without. I'm cold and I can find no warmth.’”

“And what did the spirit say to the Druid, mother?” the children asked, prompting the old woman to finish her tale.

“'You must always trust in the earth and in the skies, in the waters and in fire,'” the crone said in the voice of the spirit. Before proceeding she drank a cup of a scalding brew made of herbs then sucked on her gums, some of which were toothless. “'Swear by the firmament and the seasons, swear by the soil and the air and you will be fed.'”

The crone paused, weighing her audience. Everybody was leaning forward, wanting to know how the tale resolved, Arthur included.

“'But the winter's too harsh for that'” the old woman said in the voice of the Druid, her tone putting shivers down Arthur's spine. “Our Druid ancestor wouldn't believe in what the spirit said. So, the spirit showed him the world of the seasons, the pulse of nature. Only then would the Druid be persuaded and so swore that he would abide by the rules of the earth and have faith.”

“Did he die?” the littlest child in the audience asked.

“No,” the crone said, chiding the children with a stern look for their impatience in getting to the end. “When he woke the next morning, he found the weather had broken. No sleet nor ice came down from the sky, the soil had softened, and ripened fruit hung from branches. The encampment was saved, and the Druid never doubted again the benevolence of his environment. And to this day, in our words and in our deeds, we swear the same. To this very day, we abide and have faith.”

With the storytelling over, the company dwindled down. Arthur thanked his hosts, and secured an invitation to return, with the same strictures in place, of course. He graciously accepted gifts from them – a set of prayer beads, a decorative hide depicting stories from the druid histories, wonderfully scented candles. Arthur had nearly refused them before a surreptitious elbow and pointed glance from Merlin prompted his acceptance. Arthur left the Druid village, heavy with thought.

 

****

Arthur visited the Druids several more times over the course of the next few weeks. He heard more stories like the one which enchanted him on his first visit and learned a bit more about Reverend Fisher’s interactions. Aglain and Iseldir generally left him to his own devices after greeting him on his arrival. Rather than questioning the druids, Arthur spent his time getting to know them, and was saved from some missteps by Merlin, his constant companion. The changeling still had no clue about proper servile behaviour and remained terribly -- sometimes hilariously -- clumsy, but Arthur learned to bite his tongue rather than chastise him.

While learning to enjoy his strange new surroundings, he remained cognizant of his underlying mission. A little over a fortnight since his arrival, after a tasty dinner and the tragedy of a salted glass of port, Arthur sat alone in his study, his pen in his hand, a blank page before him. He hadn't turned the lock so as not to arouse Gwen and Merlin's suspicions, but still felt furtive about the action he was about to undertake. Gwen had been so cheery serving dinner and Merlin had done his best not to drop anything and had actually succeeded. 

Arthur smiled to himself when thinking about his servants. Gwen had learned to keep extra ingredients on hand in case Merlin’s awkwardness got the better of her meals. She had cajoled him into carrying one item at a time rather than the entire meal on a tray, so as to limit the destructive nature of his clumsiness.

Arthur felt underhanded about commenting about on their world to an outsider, albeit his own superior. Arthur had just begun to feel protective of his new home, and yet, there was a possible murder case to throw light upon. With inspiration lacking for drafting his missive, Arthur tapped the pen against the edge of the desk for a long while.

Forcing himself to put together the necessary words, Arthur bent over the paper and started writing.

_I've begun my enquiries into my predecessor's death. While the King and Queen weren't forthcoming about it, the Druids, whom I have visited regularly, did answer the questions I put to them. Though they were initially reticent, they have been more forthcoming of late. My predecessor's zeal for the conversion of the..._

Arthur wrote, then crossed out the word heathens. He found it lacked respect for the people who'd entertained and intrigued him. They might be murderers, true, but that still didn't grant him carte blanche as to his attitude towards them.

He reprised writing.

_...Druids led them to banning him from frequenting their camps. It's entirely possible his ban solved the problem and that no more animosity incurred between them, yet the Druids can be quite harsh when it comes to violating their laws. They have seen fit to welcome me, but perhaps they punished him as they saw fit? I can believe they came to a more drastic decision regarding a missionary from the mortal world who had, angered them and broken their rules. It's possible they killed him._

Arthur stopped writing, questioning his judgement. Did he really think the Druids capable of murdering someone in cold blood? The truth was he had liked them. He had appreciated their manner towards him, their entertaining of him. He even understood their dislike of his fundamental mission. They had lived by their principles for eons; they were bound to object to Arthur's desire to spread his religion among them.

But he had felt their resolve; he had understood their determination to protect themselves from outside intervention. And he couldn't rule out their acting on their urge to isolate themselves. No, there was a chance, albeit slim, that they had indeed killed Reverend Fisher.

_I will look into the matter further and either prove their guilt or their innocence. I'll be as circumspect as possible about it, both to make sure they don't suspect me of investigating them and to protect myself from suffering the same fate as my predecessor._

He wrote a few parting words designed to please the Bishop, then signed and dated the letter. The Bishop should be content to know Arthur was busying himself with the investigation, but Arthur’s words would not dishonour the Druids, whom he had come to admire. His conscience was clear in that regard at least.

He wrote a few parting words designed to please the Bishop, then signed and dated the letter. He had just locked his letter in the desk drawer intending to inquire about the protocol for sending missives back to his home world, when Merlin entered without knocking.

Arthur glared at him pointedly, and Merlin gamely returned to the open door and mimed knocking, twisting his lips into a sheepish grin and rolling his eyes. Arthur knew he should have been stricter with Merlin, but indulged him instead. He couldn't help it. Merlin's manners were -- heaven help him -- somewhat endearing.

“What did you want, Merlin? I thought you had the evening to yourself?” Servants in England were often too happy to call it a day and be done with their toils. Rousing a servant on his own time, even in an emergency, often proved itself an arduous task. “It's late.”

Merlin shrugged. Though Arthur hadn't invited him to, Merlin took the chair on the other side of the desk from Arthur's. “I was wondering what you thought of the druids.”

That was a question a friend might have asked, not a servant. Arthur ought not to have answered; he ought to have reminded Merlin of his place. But Arthur knew he wouldn’t, and he’d bet Merlin knew it, too. Merlin, and to a lesser extent Gwen, had been his sole companions for much of the past few weeks, save for the visits to the druids. It was highly improper to associate so closely with servants, but Arthur chose not to analyse his improper behaviour. He admitted to himself that he enjoyed Gwen’s care and Merlin’s openness, and that was enough to know for now. He leaned back in his chair and regarded his companion. “I like them well enough. It's surely part of my duty to connect to these people.”

Merlin arched an eyebrow. “They're not exactly people, though. They're not human even if they look it.” He paused and took a slow breath, an exhalation that made the ends of his cravat, which was loosely tied, flutter a notch. “Besides, that was a non-answer. You’ve spent enough time with them to form an opinion. What do you really think of them?”

“I can't say I fully understand them,” he responded. Rituals based on nature were foreign to Arthur. The Druids seemed to him akin to the cults of ancient people who venerated the sun and moon and stars. The part of Arthur that was raised on the Bible thought they held a naïve and fundamentally flawed position. “And I certainly do not approve of their hostility towards the Mission.”

Merlin fixed his eyes on him with a keen stare. “If someone came into your home and started saying you should consider abandoning your god…” His glance fell on the Bible that sat on the desk. It was Reverend Fisher's old battered copy that Arthur had consulted occasionally since moving into the incumbent's former home. “…would you be open and welcoming to them?”

Arthur had been about to give a pat answer, but instead considered the question more carefully. Arthur's father had been religious, but not so much as to want Arthur to enter the church. It was his nurse who had turned him to God, made him ready for his calling. It was personal to him in ways other matters weren't. “No, I can't say I would be glad. I'd probably bristle.”

Merlin crossed his arms and nodded. “So, you see...”

“But I wouldn't have barred them from coming into my house and expressing their opinions.”

“Even if those opinions were geared to change your mind?” Merlin asked. “Even if every speech of theirs was calculated to persuade you that you were wrong? If they went so far as to denigrate your strongly held beliefs?”

Arthur swallowed, hummed. “I would probably resent such behaviour. But I like to think I wouldn't stifle debate.”

“You would still think you were right, and they were wrong.”

Arthur could never do his job as a missionary if he didn't strongly believe in his church and its teachings. “I believe I uphold the truth.”

“So do they,” Merlin replied quietly.

Arthur was sorely tempted to end this conversation. It wasn't Merlin's place to question him; he was Arthur’s manservant, not his conscience. But if he did send Merlin away now, it would seem Merlin got the better of this debate, and something in Arthur refused to give him the upper hand.

“Yet I'm willing to accommodate their beliefs. Will they do the same?”

Merlin inclined his head, it was a graceful, light gesture, one that seemed to flow naturally from him in spite of his general clumsiness. “That depends. It always depends.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Arthur shifted, needing to release some of the exasperation he felt at Merlin's needling. “I don't see what I could have done better!”

“No, you're right.” Merlin smiled softly at him, as if now that he was done pointing out Arthur's failings he would be kind. “You did very well indeed.”

For a moment it seemed to Arthur as though Merlin was pulling his leg still. But then he realised it wasn't the case. Merlin really was conceding. This pleased Arthur. He didn't know why that should be, but so it was. “What about you?” he relaunched the conversation, though he should have called it a day. “How do you feel about the Druids?”

Merlin lowered his eyes. “It's not my place to feel anything.”

“I don't believe that.” Merlin was never short an opinion, and Arthur meant to suss this one out. He had cajoled Arthur into revealing his own thoughts. Turning the tables on Merlin was only fair. “Not for one moment.”

“I was trained not to make any judgements,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “Not to prefer one sect over the other, not the Druids, not the gnomes, not the High Priestesses.”

“Because you're such a perfect servant when it comes to everything else.” Arthur hadn't wanted to sound so cutting but it was true. He didn't really understand the reason behind Merlin's reticence and wanted to.

Merlin shrugged. “Some rules I like to stick to.” He rose, placing a hand on the back of the chair he'd been occupying. “But I do like the Druids. I just won't judge whether their outlook is best of all.”

With those words, Merlin left.

Arthur pondered him for longer than he should have.

 

****

A few days later, after his salty breakfast and salty tea, Arthur asked Merlin to call the carriage around. It was time to visit the gnomes. Arthur had tried to send an advance letter with Merlin to formally request a visit, but Merlin laughed off his efforts. Apparently, the gnomes would not respond well to such an overture.

He and Merlin had made some local excursions, and Arthur’d been introduced to many Fae he would describe as the working class. They had spent one happy day ambling about in an orchard filled with trees overloaded with fruits and nuts. Another day was spent wandering up and down the rows of a Fae wheat field, the towering stalks providing cover from the bright sunlight. Arthur learned the names of all the exotic-looking vegetables which Gwen had served him and discovered the secrets to making a Fae garden thrive, not all of which involved magic. Arthur had seen industrious Fae raising and caring for horses, cows, and chickens, and one memorable homestead which bred adorable dogs and cats. It took some time for Arthur to accept that dogs and cats could have fluorescent fur, but he gamely stashed his preconceptions while watching Merlin rolling around on the ground liberally covered in fur.

Gambolling with puppies and kittens was a treat, but it got him no closer to learning about what befell Reverend Fisher. It was time to broaden his search.

The mushrooms were taller than any Arthur had seen before, with stalks that came up to a man's waist and caps so large in diameter, their scales were as big as doubloons. An opening gazed out of the stipe and in it a bark-coated door had been set. There were oval-shaped holes above the door which served as windows, with small curtains to lace them. Largely the structure looked like a cross between a house and a natural protuberance.

Arthur looked to Merlin, his eyebrow cocked in question, indicating the door.

“You can knock,” Merlin said with extreme nonchalance, an amused smile on his face. “If you don’t know how, I can show you.”

Merlin made as if to do it himself, but Arthur wouldn't let him. Now it was a question of pride. Merlin’s cheeky teasing was his constant companion these days, and Arthur reminded himself to put a stop to it. Tomorrow perhaps. With the head of his cane, he knocked.

After a few seconds of bustling sounds, the door opened, and a creature emerged. He looked like a paunchy man, but he was much smaller, only coming up to Arthur's shin. He had a long white beard, puffy red-tinged cheeks, and rounded spectacles that sat on a bulbous nose. He looked Arthur up and down before addressing him. “And what do you want?”

“I bid you good day, sir gnome. I'm Arthur Pendragon.” He felt absurd, formally addressing this tiny, scowling creature, but Arthur made himself continue. “I’m the new missionary from--”

“We're not to be converted.” The gnome slammed the door shut.

Arthur dared gazing at Merlin, who was laughing under his breath. When Arthur frowned, Merlin bit his lips, but he was still making guffawing sounds.

Arthur rolled his eyes and knocked again. “I'm not here to convert you,” he called out. “I only want to talk.”

The door stayed shut.

Merlin glanced at him sideways, then stepped forward, and rapped on the wooden surface himself. “Master Thimlock, please open the door. Give us a minute.”

“Why should I?” the gnome barked from the other side of the door.

Merlin leant his head against the door, searching for sounds from within. “Because the missionary has the sanction of the royal court. Their majesties have vouchsafed his presence in our land, which includes introduction to its inhabitants.” More noises came from inside the habitation. “Besides, Reverend Pendragon's an honourable gentleman.”

Thimlock sniffed loudly, audible through the door. “We pay our taxes. That's the most the royal family can want from us. And I don't give a fig about honour.”

If asked, Arthur would have said gnomes were cute and peaceful fairy tale creatures. To find out that not only were they real, but they were cross and easily piqued was a surprise of sorts.

Merlin persisted, “I know the ancestral laws of gnomes, Thimlock. Hospitality is one of them.”

Thimlock huffed and muttered under his breath, but eventually stepped out. He gave Arthur a good long glare, then he forcefully blew a fine powder from his palm all over Merlin and Arthur.

Arthur reared back, then sneezed, sending Merlin a questioning look. Smiling benignly, Merlin shrugged his shoulders.

The itch around Arthur's nostrils had barely stopped when Arthur started feeling off. A weird sensation spread from his belly upwards. It was a little like nausea but not exactly alike. His bones hurt, especially his extremities, and his head felt heavy. He tottered and stumbled, grabbing onto Merlin for support, but he seemed to be suffering from the same kind of malaise that affected Arthur. He was surely green about the gills, though he still tried to smile.

Arthur was about to voice his discomfort when he noticed the mushroom home didn't seem so small anymore. His gaze came level with the door and he had to look up to take in the roof. What had happened? How was it even possible?

Just to make sure he wasn't seeing things, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut then blinked numerous times. When his eyes firmly re-opened, he noted that the proportions hadn't changed. Arthur still had to peer upwards to see the mushroom's cap and the door was still taller than he was.

Either Arthur had gone crazy or something was very wrong here. He grabbed Merlin by the collar and turned him around. “What-- what is this?” He gesticulated wildly.

Merlin patted the hand Arthur had placed on his shoulder. “It's not the house that's grown big. You've become smaller.”

Arthur breathed slowly in and out, trying to calm himself, even though his heart was beating so fast and unease ruled him. “I've become smaller?”

Merlin wagged his head up and down, his movements broad. “The powder shrunk you.”

Arthur gaped. Compared to the world around him, he was tiny. Flower stalks appeared giant and ants looked menacing. The gnome he had looked down on was now of equal size as him. Arthur's head swam, his insides wrung themselves to the point they were about to come out of his mouth. “Oh my God, this is just disastrous.”

“Don't worry,” Merlin told him, wearing an encouraging expression. “You'll revert back to your normal size.”

“Once I use the other powder.” The gnome clapped his hands together to remove the last of the --clearly magical -- power he'd used. Arthur was incensed.

“So without so much as a ‘by your leave’, you assault my person and wreak changes upon me I did not request?”

“How else were you supposed to fit into my house?” The gnome rolled his eyes. “You were the ones who requested an audience.”

Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Arthur sighed. He supposed he should have known. This world was, after all, completely topsy-turvy. Magic existed here, and people venerated strange inscrutable goddesses. Trees were blue, and grass grew in every hue. When one considered all that, changing one's size didn't seem so strange. Next time he would make a provision so this didn't happen. If he ever reverted to his normal bulk. “You could have told me,” he muttered.

Thimlock glared, fixed his eyes on Merlin as if looking for support there, then stepped back so he was framed by his own threshold. “Well, will you come in or not? I thought you wanted an interview.” Arthur gathered himself as best he could while still mentally reeling from his transformation and entered Thimlock’s home.

Once Arthur had stepped inside, he found that the house looked rather ordinary. If Arthur forgot he was inside a mushroom, then he'd have said he had been ushered into one of his neighbour's homes back in England. A small hall whose walls were covered in portraits gave way to a parlour. This was a cluttered room filled with many odds and ends and countless decorations. Wood green wallpaper plastered the walls. In one corner there was a glass cupboard, filled with very fine china. There were cups and teapots, stoneware sugar cellars, and little milk jugs. Arthur supposed that were he his proper size they would look like novelty miniatures to him. Over the crackling fireplace was a series of family portraits.

They represented different generations of gnomes. There was an elderly male gnome, an elderly lady gnome, and a younger female in a polka dotted dress. Thimlock himself was represented, his features gazing out of a small oval frame, standing above two smaller portraits depicting gnome children.

Merlin was also looking at the pictures. “Are those your children, Thimlock?”

“Yes, they are,” Thimlock said. “That's my eldest, Nesnin. He's a good gnome, doing very well in the village school. And that's Myna. She's not started in school yet. But she can already read small sentences in the ancient language.”

“Ah, the ancient language of the gnomes.” Merlin nodded his head. “I had lessons in it, but I don't remember much. I suppose I could read very simple phrasebooks.”

“You should brush up, then.” Thimlock's eyes shone with pleasure. He rubbed his hands together, went to a bookshelf and gave Merlin a tome. “This is a really good sample of early gnome literature. You should give it a try.”

Arthur appreciated Merlin’s unconscious efforts to charm Thimlock. The gnome, hitherto grumpy, was turning into a conversationalist. He regaled Merlin about traditional gnome literature, its superiority to all other forms of fictional output, its moral and historical importance. He gave examples, and picked up tomes, from which he read out passages, with Merlin an eager listener. Arthur had no basis for comparison to judge gnome classics, but the enthusiasm with which Thimlock approached the subject was catching. Arthur asked a question or two, but it was Merlin who prodded Thimlock into several gushing oratories.

Arthur soon realised that Thimlock was in a far better mood than he started in. He acknowledged this with an inclination of his head, which he directed at Merlin. Merlin held his gaze warmly, beaming with pride at having achieved something, then he spoke on with Thimlock, about his own experience with gnome output.

Arthur spared a thought for how Merlin could have been so well read but stopped himself before considering it further. Pondering anything about Merlin could be the work of a lifetime, and now was not the time for such introspection Now that he was pliable, Thimlock was more likely to answer the questions Arthur put to him.

The next time Thimlock paused to take a breath, Arthur interposed himself. “So, what was your relationship to Reverend Fisher like?”

Thimlock shot Arthur a betrayed look for interrupting his joyous discourse. But Arthur merely kept looking at him with a polite smile on his face. That did the trick.

Thimlock did in fact reply. “I didn't like him.”

Arthur frowned. “And why was that?”

“He preached a lot,” Thimlock said, as if the thought itself irritated him. “He was rude about our traditions. Pointed out the wrongs in them.”

Arthur couldn't say he was surprised. The Reverend had been the same with the Druids. Still, being at cross purposes wasn't the same as wishing to murder someone. Arthur had had less than cordial relationships with a lot of people and he'd never resorted to killing them. “Is that all?”

“When he arrived, I invited him here.” Thimlock peered at both Merlin and Arthur, as though willing them to understand the singularity of that invitation. “But he would have nothing to do with me. Said disparaging things against my home.”

Arthur privately understood Reverend's Fisher opposition to being invited into Thimlock's home given that it involved the shrinking of one's person. But for a missionary to behave so rudely to those he was meant to serve? That was troubling. “Was there a total break between you?”

“Not as such.” Thimlock bit his lip in thought; small lines wrinkled his forehead, making him look like a picture-perfect paunchy grandparent. “We never quarrelled. But I certainly spoke my mind openly as he looked down on me and mine. Oh, and about a moon and a half ago, he sent us books.” He made a face and toyed with his spectacles so they sat higher up on his nose. “Except they were human books.” His voice brimmed over with distaste. “Human sized! We could never have turned the pages, even if we could have got them through the door!”

“That's unfortunate.” Merlin made understanding noises.

Arthur could not condone his predecessor’s actions. If Reverend Fisher wanted to convert the gnomes, he should have provided them with tools they could actually use. Oversize tomes didn't fit the bill. There was a certain blindness to this mode of acting, Arthur found; myopic and not geared to obtaining any gain. Reverend Fisher had stuck to the letter of his mandate, but he hadn't adapted to this world, hadn't made any provisions for all its wonders.

“And that was the last you heard of him?” Arthur tilted his head to the side.

Thimlock looked up from polishing a coin he'd taken out of his pocket. “Why, yes. Not spoken to him since.”

A long, thoughtful silence followed. Thimlock didn't seem inclined to add anything further, and Merlin had lowered his gaze.

“So, you didn't know he died?” Arthur asked into the silence.

Thimlock's eyes bulged behind the rim of the glasses he'd just settled back on the bridge of his nose. “Earthlings are really short lived, aren't they?”

Arthur couldn't tell whether the gnome was being sincere, but he knew this interview had drawn to a close. He would need to learn more about the gnome culture before returning, and perhaps being more involved in the conversation would lead to answers. He heard Merlin asking Thimlock about introducing Arthur to other gnomes, and the answering grunt which could have meant anything from ‘bugger off’ to ‘I’d be delighted’.

For now, Arthur parted company with Thimlock on rather good terms. The gnome gave Merlin one more book, and Arthur a shake of the hand, before leading them to the threshold and blowing an itchy powder all over them both.

****

Before turning the page, Arthur shifted, the mattress' coils twanging as he moved. He made a face, thinking he would have to change the bed if this continued and he ended up living here on a permanent basis. It was true that the current situation remained volatile. If he uncovered a murder, he might no longer be welcome by the Fae. If, on the other hand, his findings didn't please the Bishop, he might be recalled. There was also the chance that his success would provoke future postings to uncover other mysteries. Though Reverend Fisher had been the incumbent for years, the same might not be true for him. He had better not get too comfortable and not think about making changes to the household. They might not be needed.

There was a knock on the door and before Arthur could reply Merlin had ushered himself in. He had a tray in his hands with a cup, a small plate stacked with biscuits, and a salt shaker on it. He left the tray on the corner table, displacing knickknacks in his wake, then turned around, marched to the bed, and sprawled on it right next to Arthur.

“I can tell you enjoyed yourself today,” Merlin said, as if he had not just violated all rules of good conduct governing a servant's life.

“Can you?”

“Yes, despite your protestations you liked Thimlock.” Merlin hummed insouciantly under his breath.

“Whether I liked Thimlock or not is neither here nor there. I'm still in pain from the transformation.”

Merlin rubbed the small of his own back. “I wasn't spared either, but you don't see me complaining.”

Arthur couldn't refrain from rolling his eyes. “Pardon me for not caring. You knew what would happen. I walked in unaware.”

Merlin nudged him in the ribs. “But you don't regret it.”

Arthur decided to answer honestly for once. “I learned a lot about this world.”

Merlin smiled as if Arthur had just given him an invaluable gift. “I know it doesn't look like it from your point of view. Everything's new and different from what you're used to.” He made a face. “And let's be honest, not all food suits salt.” Merlin eyed the tea he'd brought in and left on the table. “But this is a wonderful world. Every species has their lore and traditions, and you’ve barely scratched the surface. Each one of us lives by our own rules and code of conduct. There's so much history it's hard to keep track of it all, but it's rich and varied and worth knowing.”

Arthur wanted to crack a joke to lighten the mood, Merlin sounded so earnest. Merlin had spoken from the heart, as if it meant something. Arthur refused to scratch that love and confidence away with a biting remark. Not only that, he didn't want to hurt Merlin. Coming to this realisation made him look at his servant more keenly, with a new attention. Merlin might be someone Arthur needed to ward against in case his secrets were revealed, someone who didn't know about his investigation into what was probably murder and had therefore to be kept in the dark, but that didn't mean he was a bad companion.

Unwittingly the royal family had presented him with his ideal companion. Merlin was kind, good humoured, a clumsy but dutiful servant, a man who would chase away the dullness from the day with his funny faces and wise remarks. A man who knew how to suit his actions to Arthur's moods and how to be solemn and heartfelt too. He’d opened Arthur’s eyes already and promised to do even more to acclimate him to his home.

Now, Merlin was speaking about the Land of the Fae, how varied it was, how full of history and with such a full heritage. “We go back to the dawn of time. Even before humans walked your mortal Earth, we were here. We have our own creation myths, of course, each according to our specific kinds, but what matters is not how truly ancient we all are…” The passionate crescendo of his tone made itself felt. “But how we manage to coexist, both with your world now and within ours, within the peace we have forged among each other. The King and Queen make tremendous sacrifices to keep it so, but it allows us to live in harmony.”

Arthur wasn't sure the Land of the Fae was the harmonious paradise Merlin described it as, but that wasn't what he was taking away from all of this. It was Merlin's passion, his ardour for the land of his birth. Arthur was naturally drawn to this side of Merlin, admired him for it. He was so full of life, he had such a zest for existence. Arthur found him fascinating, enticing. He shook his head to chase away his reflections on Merlin.

“You're very loyal to your King and Queen.”

Merlin pinked up. “They're good people.”

Arthur thought those strange words to use to describe reigning monarchs. Arthur might describe his own leaders as canny politicians, wise strategists, fine statesmen. He couldn’t imagine saying that Queen Victoria was a good woman, whether it was true or not. The natural deference the English showed to their leaders was absent here. God only knew how patriotism worked in the Land of the Fae, especially when there were so many clans and subgroups sticking to their own traditions and rules. Perhaps thinking your royals as good people was a high honour here?

Arthur didn't comment further. Neither did he touch on the previous subject. It had made Merlin so eloquent; it had filled him with such fervour and Arthur didn't quite know how to respond to it. Instead, he asked Merlin to pass him the tea, which he duly salted, and then sipped and listened as Merlin went on about the creatures that made up the Land of the Fae.

Though he still ached because of the magic performed on him, and though this wasn't his usual idea of entertainment, Arthur found himself thoroughly enjoying the conclusion of his day.

 

***** 

As was his morning habit, Arthur softened his skin with warm water and camphor oil. Then he worked up a soap lather and reached over his head and drew his skin upward with his fingers, shaving downwards in the direction of his beard growth, thus clearing about half the right cheek. He looked in the mirror and, satisfied with the result, he made to continue when Merlin barged in, carrying a pile of fresh towels.

“Make sure there's a carriage ready for me in one hour.” Arthur had made a rough estimate of the time it would take him to get dressed and have breakfast. “Pack some drinks for the journey, and bring some blankets.”

Merlin placed the towels on the dresser and nodded his head. “Anything else?”

Arthur detected a faint note of mockery but decided to act as though he hadn't. He was accustomed to Merlin and knew that his teasing wasn't too serious. “Make sure to bring a jacket. I don't want you complaining about how cold you are.” They had spent many days visiting the myriad of creatures which Merlin enthusiastically discussed whenever Arthur permitted. Arthur’s typical garb kept him warm when the ever-present fog surrounding the Mission chilled the air, but Merlin’s lighter clothes were ill-suited for the early mornings and late evenings when the carriage rumbled about the countryside. Arthur came dangerously close to cuddling with Merlin to warm him up not two nights past, and that simply would not do. The difference in their rank prevented ease with such physical intimacy as that, regardless of how little it would trouble Arthur to do so.

“And may I ask where we're going?”

Arthur ran the razor down his cheek, culling away the stubble that had grown overnight. “Of course.” He hadn't mentioned the upcoming trip to Merlin before because he didn't want him to tease out information on Arthur's secret mission. But there was no point in keeping their destination from him. “I’ve had a letter back. We're visiting the High Priestess.”

Merlin blanched, his jaw slackened, and he took a step back. “I'm not coming.”

Arthur laughed. Of course, Merlin would kick up a fuss. Maybe he was about to complain about the discomfort of carriage rides. Or perhaps he was going to say a blanket and his jacket wasn't enough to protect him from the cold that haunted the isle on which the High Priestess dwelt. But naturally Merlin would let himself be persuaded. That was the whole point of Merlin’s presence in his life, wasn't it? Arthur led, and Merlin followed. “It will be all right, don't you worry.”

“I know,” Merlin said, his expression panic-filled. “But I still won't be coming.”

Arthur, half his face still covered in lather, turned around. “What do you mean?”

Merlin smiled feebly. “I won't be coming this time.”

“But you've always come with me so far.” Merlin had been his guide, had provided Arthur with insights he, as a stranger to the land, wouldn't otherwise have had. “Why are you being stubborn now?”

Merlin dropped his head. “I just can't come. I’m sorry.”

The muscles in Arthur's face contracted; he failed to rein in a sour expression. Trying to dispel a frown he couldn't quite work off his face, he said, “Very well, in which case you'll do the laundry and the ironing and help Gwen with the cleaning.” His face, he believed, was now free of all signs of disappointment, but he still felt terribly let down by Merlin's refusal. He was a house servant. There was no rule that said he should flank Arthur in all expeditions. It was perfectly all right. Merlin was just being lazy. “I want everything spotless by the time I return.”

Merlin stood up straighter, his face now a mask of concern, his eyes shining. Were those tears? “I will. But--” He hesitated. “Watch out with the High Priestess; she's--”

Arthur cut Merlin short. “I've been doing my job quite a while.” He kept an impassive mien. “I think I can be trusted with the local administration.”

Merlin's mouth twisted. “I wouldn't exactly call Nimueh the administration.”

Arthur didn't heed him. He dismissed Merlin and finished shaving, the silence echoing around the chamber hollowly. Arthur didn't heed it. He didn't need any morning chatter to start his day, he reminded himself. He didn't need companionship, or sympathy.

He was in the carriage quite more quickly than he'd expected he'd be. He'd told Merlin an hour, but without him to slow down his breakfast with his chatter Arthur was done in no time.

At first the drive was so unremarkable it might have taken place in England. But little by little Arthur’s view changed. The carriage cut across swathes of enchanted countryside with fantastical farmsteads, over charmed bridges which expanded or contracted according to need and travelled across a forest of trees so brightly silver they sparkled in the early morning air.

At last the coach halted. Arthur was by the shore of a lake. It shone as if stars were caught under the surface, a bright sheen reflecting off the waters in pale tones. Arthur had never seen such beauty. It amazed him yet frightened him. It was all so eerie, he had the feeling he didn't belong at all.

From the mists that enveloped the far shore a barge appeared. A figure wrapped in a red cloak rowed ahead, water lapping from the oars like so many little moons, yet he saw no movement from the occupant which resembled actual rowing. Was this magic? By and by the small craft got to the shore. The figure lowered their cowl and the face of a woman peeped out at Arthur. She was beautiful and appeared young, yet in an ageless enchanted way rather that in the way of earthly youth. Her skin was taut, her eyes like deep pools, while her skin glowed like the dawn. Her voice was musical when she spoke to Arthur. “You requested to see the blessed High Priestess.”

The encounter feeling off to him, Arthur swallowed, strange beyond compare. “I did,” he managed to say. He mustn't make any misstep. He mustn't clash with these folks. He had a notion he would be severely punished if he did. “I come in peace.” He didn't mention his religion. It would make him no friends, and he was sure he would find no allies among the followers of the Triple Goddess.

The woman nodded. “Do not mention your false idols before her.”

Arthur wanted to object his God was no false idol. He didn't appreciate having his faith insulted. But he hadn't come here to foment a war. But rather to discuss peace. Well, once he had crossed the High Priestess off his list of suspects, he might do that. Neither the druids nor the gnomes struck him as the murderous types. The devotees of the Triple Goddess were the third and last group mentioned by Reverend Fisher in his correspondence. Arthur had to be diplomatic now. He had a mission to fulfil. “I understand.”

Without saying a word, the woman made space for him to climb into the barge. Arthur did so, moving past her. Before he had quite had time to seat himself comfortably at the stern, the barge started moving, the oars thrusting into the water without a hand touching them.

It was the strangest crossing of Arthur's life. The barge didn't pitch or roll; it didn't ride the waves. It glided on as if on a smooth surface, without any motion that wasn't forward. While it certainly gave no rise to sea sickness, it was an eerie experience. As if one's senses didn't work properly here, as if what he was seeing wasn't the same as what was actually happening. He considered commenting but doubted the woman would answer. Now if Merlin had been here he might have told him. And Merlin would surely have explained it all to him.

But Merlin wasn't here, was he? There was no point in contemplating what he might have said or done were he with him. Merlin had chosen not to come, not to help. It was as though they were back to their first day, just a master and his servant. Yet Arthur had thought they were over that, that they had forged an understanding.

Arthur had no time to feel dejected about Merlin's absence, for by the time despondent feelings surfaced, they'd reached the Isle. Shape wise, it looked like a cone emerging out of the scintillating waters of the lake, the tip of the mountain that rose from the rocks making for the sky in a great looming mass.

Stepping onto the jetty, Arthur found himself surrounded by a group of women. Judging by their habit – a cascading robe of the deepest mauve with a stole-like strip of linen worn around their necks – they were priestesses. Like the oarswoman, they looked eternally youthful, with an unearthly cast to their perfect features. Unlike the oarswoman and similar to the Druids, their eyes shone gold.

Without a word, they encircled him. Arthur wasn't sure what to do. He understood that he had to obey their rules and traditions, and yet he felt menaced. “Are you taking me to your Priestess?”

None of the women answered, but they started moving, herding him. They climbed a set of stone steps covered by trellises of greenery that released a heady perfume, and up small winding paths that unfurled in the mists blanketing the island.

Climbing some more, they reached a natural green plateau boxed in by standing stones. At the centre stood a rectangular altar fashioned out of untreated stone, whose sides were deeply uneven as if the basalt had been carved by the wind over long millennia.

A woman stood before it. She was dark-haired, with feathers and shells worked in her hair. She wore robes similar to those of her acolytes, but hers were grander, their colour brighter, almost preternaturally so. Her gaze sparked golden and she had an aura of command. Arthur didn't doubt for one second that this was Nimueh, the High Priestess. 

Though he didn't bow, his tone was gracious when he greeted her. “It's a pleasure to meet you, High Priestess.”

Her lips barely moving, Nimueh laughed, the tone of it jarring. “The pleasure isn't mine, mortal.”

Yes, well, what was Arthur to say to that? He'd probably better disregard it. “I have come to convey the respects of my church and--”

“I want to hear nothing about your church!” Nimueh thundered. “The mere mention of it is an insult to the Triple Goddess, who sees everything and hears everything. Know that this land is sacred to her!”

Arthur was at a loss for what he should say next. But he had to try. Not so much because his church desired a connection to the local denizens, but more because he needed to find out who'd murdered his predecessor. The degree of hostility being shown by Nimueh seemed incongruent with a diplomatic first meeting. “I beg your forgiveness for any offense, High Priestess. I've merely come in friendship.”

“We do not seek the friendship of mortals.” Her eyes gave out a golden light that was hard to look into. “You've only been admitted today because the King and Queen of Fae ordered it.”

Arthur hadn't known he owed them that much. While they had welcomed him and acknowledged his role in Fae land, they hadn't seemed that keen to help him. Perhaps he had been mistaken. If they were on his side, then maybe he would really succeed in finding the killer. For now, he needed to curtail Nimueh’s anger if he possibly could. “And I thank you for your gracious accommodation, My Lady.”

Nimueh frowned, her eyebrows connecting in one thunderous line. “You're on sacred ground here, which you are polluting with your mortal presence. Tell me quickly what you want, so you can be properly dispatched.”

The hostility pierced Arthur like daggers. He had no doubt Nimueh was serious and knew something bad would happen to him if he overstayed his welcome. “My presence here is no threat to you, High Priestess.”

“Your beliefs are blasphemy to me and mine,” Nimueh spat. “Your false idol, your obscene prayers offend the Triple Goddess. You speak no immortal truth as we do. You spread the basest of falsehoods, and for that you deserve to--” She bit her tongue. “You should be chased away. But as you are here with the blessing of the rulers of the land, I must suffer your presence.”

Arthur probably had only a handful of minutes before he was kicked off the Isle. It was a pity. Even though he didn't believe in the Triple Goddess, he, too, could feel the ancient presence of this place, a sensation which made him feel at ease with nature and its surroundings. Still, he had a purpose here. “I hope my predecessor offered no insult to you and yours.”

“Your predecessor…” Nimueh's voice got deeper and more menacing, as if it was backed up by an invisible chorus, “was a vile desecrator, a monstrous violator of all that is holy. He was false and treacherous and should never have been allowed on our blessed island.”

“I'm certain he didn't mean to offend you.” Arthur tried to salvage some scrap of peace between the Mission and the Priesthood of the Triple Goddess. “He was probably ignorant of your ways and said or did the wrong thing without meaning to.”

“Without meaning to?” Nimueh's voice rose further, and the earth around them shook as she spoke. “He meant each and every one of his sickening actions. He thought he could bury the cult of the true Goddess, which is millennia old, and replace it with that of his false deity.”

Arthur had trouble standing with the soil trembling so. He waited for the tremors to subside before he spoke again. The Reverend Fisher had been sent to Fae Land with the express purpose of converting its inhabitants. If Nimueh had perceived such an intent as insulting, and if Reverend Fisher did nothing to mitigate that insult, then Arthur had to try to make amends. “I sincerely apologise if my predecessor was anything less than an ambassador of good will to you and your people.”

Nimueh said, “He was no such thing. He was a defiler of the faith and his death was the just punishment for his purpose.”

Arthur froze for a moment. Nimueh was the first being he had encountered outside the royal family who brought up his predecessor’s death unprompted. Did that constitute guilt? Arthur could not go back to his Mission with a question half-answered. He would be circumspect but press on. “It grieves me that you think so, High Priestess. I'm sure it was the surprise of his death that affected you so--”

“I was by no means surprised.” Nimueh smiled, her even white teeth glinting. “He got nothing less than he deserved. The Goddess willed it so.”

“The Goddess?” Arthur had found a line of enquiry, he believed. “Does she speak to you? Did she communicate that to you?”

“You may not be used to an open dialogue with one's god,” Nimueh said. “But that's because your false God cannot answer you. The Triple Goddess is real and makes her wishes known to her acolytes, especially her High Priestess.”

Arthur didn't express his deep offense to what Nimueh just said. He took another tack. “And did she command his death?”

With a shriek, Nimueh raised her arms and a wind rose that shook the trees surrounding the clearing. Fissures opened in the earth at Arthur's feet causing him to stumble backwards. A moan rose up from the gaping soil, like a mourning chant, spectral and terrifying.

Nimueh's golden gaze promised slaughter when she said, “Begone, mortal. You have pestered us enough with your insulting words.”

Despite the fear twisting his insides, Arthur made as if to object, but Nimueh would have none of it.

“This Isle is consecrated to the Triple Goddess. Never set foot upon it again on pain of death! If you do so, you shall die amid the most agonising torture.”

The sky darkening in her wake, Nimueh turned and stalked away.

Her acolytes surrounded Arthur, swords such as a medieval king might brandish in their hands, all pointed at him. They didn't speak but pushed and prodded at him with their weapons; herding him back to the jetty. They boarded a wide raft with him, menacing him with their swords throughout the crossing. They prodded him off the raft and into his carriage. He stepped into it with one of the blades' points poking into his back.

They menaced the coachman so that he started his horses to a sudden trot that caused Arthur to bob in his seat. Before they were even clear of the cluster of trees surrounding them, the horses were at a dangerous gallop.

It took Arthur long minutes to calm down from the experience and get detached enough to consider it with a clear head. Of all the different beings he had encountered in the Land of the Fae, Nimueh and her followers were certainly the least welcoming. Arthur had a feeling he was lucky he'd come away with his skin intact.

Could Nimueh have made the same threats to Fisher? Probably. Could she have moved on from words and turned her hand to revenge? Maybe. Arthur wanted to think no moral figurehead would ever do that. But Nimueh was certainly capable of taking ruthless action. He had only escaped because he had the support of the King and Queen.

So Nimueh had spoken in an unrepentant fashion that marked her out as a potential culprit. She had offered no excuse for her animosity towards the late Reverend. She had been blatant in her condemnation of him, and he had no evidence to indicate she wasn't involved in his murder. The gnomes and Druids had not liked the Reverend, either, but Arthur felt Nimueh was the one most likely to turn to murder.

But did this mean she had actually done so? Arthur couldn't be positive. Her personality was certainly explosive. She was direct and forceful, the kind of person to go and get what she wanted. But maybe she was all show and there was no substance to her warnings.

Before making any decisions, Arthur would have to consult the Bishop. His superior had been encouraging in the letters they exchanged, seemed pleased with Arthur’s progress in getting to know the druids and gnomes better. He didn't know what he would do once they had discussed this, but the mere thought of sharing his news comforted him. He wouldn't bear the burden of this investigation alone. He thought that Merlin’s quick mind would probably be of great help, here, with the added advantage of understanding the cultures, but knew he couldn’t involve him without his being sanctioned by the Bishop. Arthur made a mental note to bring this up.

He had quieted down somewhat by the time he noticed they were passing out of the silver forest. Looking out the window he observed the number of sparkling trunks thin out and the path widen. The vista around them lost some of its preternatural charm but gained with it a less uncanny aspect.

Arthur was already looking forward to tea at the Mission, when a terrible screech rent the air. The sound raised goose bumps and made his heart stop for a moment. His blood turned to ice, but he forced himself to look out the carriage's window.

At first, he could see nothing but the border of the enchanted forest, which was still part of Nimueh's domain. But then a great shadow appeared over the treeline and the coachman started screaming. “Off, be off!” he shouted. “Away, help, away!” 

The carriage jarred to an abrupt halt, tossing Arthur forwards violently. Arthur heard the coachman scramble off the box and run away, shouting as he sprinted for the forest. Arthur gathered himself and was about to follow the coachman’s lead when the roof was torn off the carriage by a monstrous set of talons. Talons which were attached to a bloody great creature hovering over him. Flattening himself as much as he could, he lowered the handle of the carriage door and attempted to open it.

But the handle was stuck. It would neither lift nor move downwards. And the creature that had already half destroyed the carriage was still perched above him, screeching wildly, flapping large grey wings and poking its beak down into the carriage towards Arthur.

Heart in his throat, Arthur renewed his struggles with the door, daring to raise up on his knees to get more leverage. With this better access, the beast had scored Arthur’s skin with a talon, causing a burning sensation Arthur couldn't help but focus on. He jerked in surprise and pain, heaving desperately at the carriage door, overjoyed when it opened.

He half-leapt, half-fell from the ruined carriage. He hit wet grass with his knees and rolled to a crouching position. When he looked up, he made out the creature attacking him much more fully. It had a large snout ending in a beak furnished with sharp six-inch teeth, a body covered in thick grey skin, flapping veined wings, and a tail like that of a lizard. It was nothing like any animal Arthur had ever seen. He supposed the Land of the Fae had as extraordinary a fauna as it had a flora.

The monster had noticed his new, more accessible location and was flapping its wings while emitting high-pitched screeches. The screams pierced Arthur’s ear drums and scared the living daylights out of him as he tried to back away. There were no caves or buildings around here and the creature had proved that even roofs were no obstacle for it. He didn't think climbing a tree would save him either since the creature could fly.

Loath as he was to admit it, Arthur was utterly at the monster's mercy. But that didn't mean he would make it easy. If the creature was to be his end, he'd make it work for the kill, not lie down and accept his death, though the panic that worked at him urged him to do exactly that. When the creature threw its head back to snap its great beak at the air, Arthur ran, making for an area with a denser cover of trees. He was retreating deeper into Nimueh’s Enchanted Forest, but going for the open countryside would be of no help either.

He had almost made it to a dense cluster of trees, when he felt air on the nape of his neck and a foul stench like carrion spread to his nostrils. He had barely turned when he felt searing pain on his back. It would have made him scream but for the cold shock of it.

He stumbled, fell. His back was on fire, white hot flames of pain licked up his spine. Blood coursed wet and sticky down his back. His heart was dashing, drumming in his ears, rendering him deaf to all external sound, even the screeches of the creature, loud as they were.

But he wouldn't stop, couldn't lie still and accept his death. Not by this creature in this strange forest. He dragged himself forward with his elbows, scrambling for the thicker vegetation that could perhaps conceal him. His movements were slow and painful, the strongest of efforts yielding mere inches of movement.

When he felt the monster draw close, he rolled onto his back. Though that made him grit his teeth and whine in pain, but he kept lucid. The creature was fluttering just above him, its pale belly exposed, its talons up in the air, the tips crimson with Arthur's blood.

A sick realisation hit Arthur. The creature could have killed him in a second but hadn't. It was toying with him. Arthur had seen cats play with their quarry as well as great birds of prey. This was what he was now: a toy.

The creature swung out with one of its talons.

Arthur heaved himself to the side, rolling away from the impact of those deadly weapons.

Seeing as it hadn't hit Arthur, the creature threw its head back and gave out a long keening wail before it attacked again. By now Arthur was bleeding fast, his clothes in tatters, his body swathed in sheets of cold sweat. His ability to think clearly was gone. His legs wouldn't support him, so Arthur tried to roll again, but the creature wasn't fooled twice. It struck out at Arthur, opening a gash that went from his shoulder to his forearm.

By now Arthur was bleeding fast, his clothes in tatters, his body swathed in sheets of cold sweat. His ability to think clearly was gone. His legs wouldn't support him. Arthur gasped out his agony, unable to even draw a deep breath to scream. He could fight no longer, and the monster loomed over him, ready for the kill.

Eyes closed, Arthur prayed. He prayed as he had never prayed before. He was a man of the cloth, had led congregations of hundreds, spent a goodly portion of each day in prayer, but his entreaties had never been quite as heartfelt, quite as desperate as now. He was glad to find that his faith was earnest and true in this last moment of his life and that consoled him. Still, he'd have liked to live longer, to have a chance to enjoy the world and find love, to make a difference in his profession, to grow old and wise. Ah, but there was a lot to regret.

He was bracing himself for pain when he heard a thunderous yell. It was a human voice, but he couldn't distinguish the words to save his life. Arthur opened his eyes.

He thought for a moment he had already died and gone to heaven, for what he saw made no sense. Merlin – Merlin whom Arthur had left behind at the Mission – was standing there, his eyes glowing gold, his arm stretched out, his voice deeper than its wont.

Merlin stood tall, thundering out commands at the creature, looking imperious and oozing power. Arthur questioned his sight, sure he couldn't be seeing this. This must be his mind indulging in one final dream, a last fantasy. He must have longed for Merlin too much, especially on this day when he was to meet his death and conjured him out of thin air.

Merlin – whether dreamed or real – widened his stance and more words poured forth from him, guttural and commanding.

The creature cocked its head and spread out its wings, as though it was listening.

Merlin spoke again, and the creature moved away from Arthur. It roared back a complaint of some kind and Merlin chided it, or so it seemed to Arthur. The creature lowered its head, made its body smaller. It still slobbered and keened though, shifting from foot to foot as though it might either fly away or return to finish Arthur off.

Merlin's voice got even deeper. The sound put shivers down Arthur's spine, drove warmth into his shaky limbs.

It must have had some effect on the monster too, for it cowered before Merlin. It put its head between its legs, growling in submission.

Hurling out a last command, Merlin stepped forward threateningly.

The monster let out a last keening noise, then flapped its wings and took off.

Arthur could not take his eyes off Merlin, still finding it hard to believe what he had seen. Merlin was supposed to be at the Mission, lazing over his chores. He shouldn’t be here, with eyes glowing like fresh embers, with a voice so intense it charmed evil creatures.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be. But it was. Had to be, for Merlin was rushing towards him, hope and fear sculpted on his face. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on at the Mission. He now had the same mannerisms as before.

Arthur was dazed but he couldn't deny it. It really was Merlin. And yet that astounding display of power he'd put on just now wasn't like anything Arthur had ever seen before. He could not reconcile that with the Merlin he'd come to know.

Rushing up to him, Merlin cradled him, his hands coated with Arthur's blood. He looked frantic, desperate, with tears in his eyes, his skin flushed with emotion.

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin began, trying to staunch the blood flow with his hands. “I'm getting you help. I promise you, Arthur, you’ll be fine.”

Arthur should have been comforted by those words. Merlin was here to help. Their gifts in the healing arts had distinguished the land of Fae, enticing humans into their current treaties with this land. But Arthur could barely consider his own fate. He couldn't stop thinking about Merlin, this incredible new side to him. He slurred out a question, “who are you?”

Before Merlin could answer, Arthur’s world faded to black.

 

****

His back was on fire. It burned in waves that seemed to overwhelm him. It throbbed in spasms of keen agony. His head was heavy and hurt, like a low drumming at his temples. His throat was parched, and his limbs weighed him down like anchors. Soreness screamed out of every pore, and his thoughts, just now resurfacing from heavy sleep, focused on his condition, the pain in his body, as if it came first, even before consciousness, before his sense of self.

Arthur wanted to open his eyes. But it seemed so hard. When he tried, he realised he was still cocooned in darkness. He tried a few more times until finally he seemed to succeed. He looked round him with a wide and painful gaze, observing the world around him in a dazed fashion.

He had no idea of where he was and had little remembrance of how he came to be here. He could tell he wasn't home in England. And he was certain this was no room in the Mission in Fae. This room was far grander than any he'd ever been in. The chamber was vast, running from a set of doors on one end to several large windows on the other whose curtains danced in the breeze. The walls were marble with coruscations of diamonds scraping their length. They sparkled and caught the light in a gleaming dawn. The bed was soft and canopied with living gold, woodbine and damask. Gilt mirrors, which showed dream landscapes, hung above a fireplace whose hearth burned green.

Arthur blinked. Was he dreaming? No, he didn't think so. His aches and pains were much too vivid for that. No, he was most definitely awake, but that didn't mean he felt any less dislocated than if he'd been trapped in a fantasy created by his sleeping brain. Where was he and how had he got here?

Arthur sat up. He needed to clear a few things up. As pain lurched back into the forefront of his mind, his vision swam. Having taken a few deep breaths, he settled against the pillow. He noticed a pitcher of water sitting on the nightstand by the bed and reached out to pour himself some of the refreshing liquid.

He had almost succeeded, when the door opened, and Merlin entered the room. He wasn't wearing the clothes he usually had on, his servant blacks, or his livery. He wore an elegant blue coat cutaway in front with long tails behind, lapels featuring a notch, and a tall standing collar. A fine linen shirt brightened the outfit with a cravat tied in front in a complicated flounce. Medals and a sash livened up his clothing's colour. Pleated frills at the cuffs made the garment look even finer, certainly not suited to serving. Merlin's legs were encased in tight breeches which showed his physique to advantage. Arthur realized where his gaze had settled and quickly glanced away, heat burning his face.

What was more, he really had to question Merlin's sartorial choices. How could he expect to go about his job so grandly dressed? It made no sense. His apparel would be ruined after only half an hour of chores.

“Merlin,” Arthur began, choosing to focus on the obvious question first before he tackled the rest. “What are you doing dressed like that?”

Merlin gave Arthur a tired but heartfelt smile. “Really, Arthur, a wyvern nearly kills you and you choose to comment on my clothes?”

Oh so that was what had happened. “What's a wuh-- wehverine?”

Merlin grinned at Arthur’s stumble. “A kind of dragon.”

Oh, so Arthur had been attacked by a dragon. He was definitely not in England, then. That accounted for the pain in his back, his aching arm and the general feeling of having been run over by a freight train. “Why was a wufflenn attacking me?”

Merlin leant against the bed's foot rail. “I can only imagine the wyvern--” he pronounced carefully, a trace of humour detectable in Merlin's tone, “--went for you because it was commanded.”

Arthur's brow crinkled heavily. “You mean to say someone told a pseudo dragon--” Though he was getting used to the strangeness of Fae, this still left him befuddled. “--to kill me?”

“We think so.”

Arthur thought back to the last time he had been conscious before waking up here, the dragon attack. Then he went back in his mind to the time before that. He had been returning from a meeting with the High Priestess. He recollected that plainly. “Nimueh.” His eyes got large.

“Yes.” Merlin nodded his head in acknowledgement. “You stepped on her toes, so she tried to kill you.”

Arthur remembered how things had gone down, how he had asked too many unpleasant questions of Nimueh and she had all but tossed him off her island. She was the only one who could have known exactly when he was on his journey back to the Mission. If Merlin was right, and someone commanded the dragon creature to kill him, all signs pointed to the High Priestess. Whether that meant she had also killed Reverend Fisher Arthur didn't know. But if she had tried in his case, then why not in Fisher's too? She was most certainly his prime suspect now. But how did Merlin know she had such a propensity? Arthur hadn't shared with him any details about his investigation. His eyes narrowed in response to this thought. “How come you think so?”

Merlin sighed deeply. He sat at the foot of Arthur's bed and stretched his legs out. “Because we suspect she murdered your predecessor.”

Arthur moved up against the pillow, the sudden move causing a sharp jolt of pain. “You knew?” Arthur thought hard about how this could be possible. He'd been so prudent, so secretive, and he was positive Merlin hadn't snooped into his papers. “How?”

His face acquiring a pinker tint, Merlin cast his eyes down. “We suspected what your motives were. It was expected you would be entrusted with uncovering Reverend Fisher's murderer.”

Arthur couldn't hide his surprise. “You knew...” He considered this. “Wait a moment. Who's this 'we' you're talking about.”

“Me, my mother and my father,” Merlin said, shrugging his shoulders.

But why would Merlin's parents be acquainted with Arthur's status? It made no sense. “Why did you and your parents even discuss this?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Because it was important for the well-being of Fae.”

“I appreciate your love of country,” Arthur said. “But I don’t see why my investigation should be of concern to your parents.”

“But it is,” Merlin replied gently. “To keep the peace, a ruler must know the goings on in the kingdom.”

Well. That explained a few things, didn't it? Merlin's reference to his parents as people in the know, his current attire, the splendour of Arthur's current location. Arthur stammered, then his voice steadied, and he asked, “Merlin, who are you?”

Merlin gave his head a scratch, a blush spread across his cheeks and his smile got sillier. “I’m Merlin.”

Arthur scowled.

Merlin said, “I'm the Y Draig Gwyn.” When Arthur showed his lack of comprehension, Merlin added. “You would say I'm the heir to the throne, the crown prince, the...”

Arthur waved off further titles with a sharp gesture. “I get the picture.”

“You're frowning.”

Indeed he was. Arthur had been lied to. Worse, Merlin was the one who had omitted the truth. And Arthur had bloody liked Merlin! He thought him an upstanding fellow, a good man, a devoted, servant. And more. Now he could admit it. He had gone past merely liking Merlin. He'd experienced a connection, a rare, deep one, and yet he'd been deceived as to an essential part of the man. Merlin wasn't a changeling; he was an incredibly powerful Fae Lord. “I don't understand. Why did you pretend to be a servant?”

Merlin dipped his head. “My dad wanted to see through this affair and he thought the best way was helping from the side lines.”

“He could still have said something to me.” Arthur didn’t hide his umbrage.

“Just as you could have said you were leading an investigation into the death of your predecessor.” Merlin arched an eyebrow quite pointedly.

Arthur sighed. He supposed he could have. But he had orders not to share that information with anyone. “I had my reasons.”

Merlin shook his head. “Yes, well, I suppose we're even, then.”

Arthur was still nursing his wounded pride, still feeling a whirlwind of disappointed emotions. He didn't want to admit as much. Even looking at Merlin hurt. Thinking he had been so easily duped was hard to bear. But rationally he had to acknowledge that they had acted in similar ways. If they were to move ahead as allies, then they both needed to forget past deceptions. “I suppose.”

“Now that the truth is out we can be proper friends,” Merlin declared with a smile.

Arthur experienced a pang of longing, but he suppressed it. He wanted to be closer to Merlin, but couldn’t accept his overtures before he knew more about who the real Merlin was. Arthur had fallen for who he thought was his bumbling yet wise servant and companion. Arthur’s heart was an open sore and he wasn’t ready for any more mistreatment or to feel so much quite yet. So he spoke about something else. “Is that why you didn’t come with me?”

At the change of subject Merlin's face fell.

“To meet Nimueh,” Arthur continued, eyebrows raised in question.

“Yes.” Merlin's mouth drooped into a frown. “I knew the Druids and gnomes wouldn't betray my identity to you. They're so inward-focused they wouldn't even care to. But Nimueh was different.”

“And you left me to my own devices. When I needed you.”

“I followed you, didn't I?” Merlin said, defensive. “I made sure to protect you.”

“I wouldn’t have needed protection if you hadn’t lied to me,” Arthur snapped, then softened his tone. “Ahh, Merlin, forgive me. You do not deserve to bear the brunt of my frustrations. You saved my life, after all. For that I thank you.”

Arthur hated being in pain, hated feeling helpless. He may not be a soldier, but he wasn't completely defenceless, either. In his own world he would have put up more of a fight. He still felt disconcerted by his ostensible servant being the one to save his life. But Arthur’s wounded pride and nascent feelings for Merlin did not justify his bad temper. He nodded and gifted his former ‘servant’ with a smile.

Merlin smiled back shyly. “You’re welcome.”

“Whatever the outcome of that encounter, we now need to find out whether your High Priestess is a murderer or not.”

At that Merlin got much more sombre, his expression darkening by the second. “That we do,” he said. “But to form a plan we need my mum and dad.”

Arthur knew that without the consent of the King and Queen he could do nothing. He'd have to wait till he was better and could see them. He would need to bring his Bishop up to speed as well. But he was still determined to avenge his predecessor and see this matter through.

 

****

The butterflies were blue, with black and teal striations, and bigger than a man's head. They flitted from plant to plant, from flower to flower, batting their wings as they cut across the air. They were bathed in the soft light that streamed in through the glass windows of the hothouse. In corners nectarines and peaches ripened, peeping through a thick dark-green mesh of tapered leaves. Dew beaded in spots shining like stardust. Small trees grew in pots, their canopies multicoloured, their fronds heavy.

Little paths sliced across the rows of tables upon which plants rested and among the lines of shrubs that grew from earthy beds.

Arthur followed Merlin along these and stopped by a bay casement topped by a double sloped roof. Under the arch was a table. It was made out of silver and sported leaf shaped ornamentation in the edges and legs. It was one of the most exquisite works of silversmithing Arthur had ever seen. Behind it sat the King and Queen. Merlin’s parents, Arthur reminded himself.

Their dress was less formal than at Arthur’s introductory meeting. The King was wearing a tunic of sombre green belted at the waist, the Queen a flowing robe with simple yet elegant lines.

Coming up to them, Merlin made a small bow, the smile at the corner of his lips and the glint in his eyes belying the ceremonious nature of the gesture. “Mum, Dad, may I present to you Reverend Pendragon.”

“You've been cause of great uproar,” King Balinor said, biting into a fresh orange. “I don't really know what to do with you.”

The Queen laid a hand on her husband’s arm, silencing anything else he might say. “But we're glad that you're feeling better,” she said.

After waking that first time and speaking to Merlin, Arthur had spent a few hazy days under the influence of some potent pain draughts, being seen to by the palace’s healer and fussed over by Gwen. He would still be abed, possibly permanently crippled, had his injuries happened back in England. Throughout his convalescence, Merlin had been a regular visitor. Merlin continued what Arthur now realized were lessons on the land of Fae, sometimes drifting off to sleep then waking to find Merlin still murmuring to him, nearly nodding off himself. The prince’s great pride in his home world had shone through his every word and settled into Arthur’s heart as well. Arthur’s regard for the royals, custodians of this magical land, had risen as well.

Arthur bowed more deeply than Merlin had and replied to the Queen. “I do feel better, thank you, your majesty. I do believe it's thanks to your assistance.”

The King and Queen inclined their heads. “Our physician, Gaius, is the best at healing spells.” They indicated that Arthur and Merlin should take seats at the exquisite table.

“I thought we might discuss further what brought Arthur to our world, and why he was injured,” Merlin began.

“Nimueh.” King Balinor took a few lengthy strides that took him away from the table then came back. “It's a thorny issue.”

“But if she's guilty she ought to be punished!” Merlin cried.

The King held up a hand. “She's the High Priestess. We can't accuse her on the say so of a mortal, you know this. You studied the treaties; our hands are tied.”

“But she had Arthur attacked! We know she can command wyverns.” Merlin's rose with emotion. “If I hadn't followed him, he'd be dead!”

The Queen smiled. “You did very well, my boy.”

“Yes, Merlin, you did, but her ability to command wyverns is not unique to her. You can command them, too, but that doesn’t mean you tried to kill the Reverend,” the King said. Merlin’s mouth snapped shut at his father’s reasoning. He flushed and nodded his head. “We cannot act against her without better evidence, my son. We had our suspicions after Reverend Fisher died, but again, we had no proof.”

“We’ll never get any proof at all, the way she hides away on her Isle, surrounded by her devotees,” Merlin said.

“It’s a shame,” Arthur added. “She seemed quite fond of hearing her own voice, disparaging my faith and gloating over my predecessor’s death. If I’d had more time to speak with her before her cronies herded me off the Isle, she might have let something slip.”

“But you’re a mortal, and she a High Priestess. Even if she confessed everything, your word would not be enough,” the Queen gently reminded Arthur.

“I could act on a confession.” The King said, “but the witness must be of the Fae, and I cannot see her ever admitting what she's done to us.”

“She won't own up to us, that's true, but as you mentioned, the woman likes to brag. Could we use that to our advantage?”

Arthur considered her question. “Her hangers-on won't come scuttling to us with the truth.”

“No.” The Queen tipped up an eyebrow. “But they might speak to one of their own.”

Merlin suddenly clapped his hands together, smiled widely, and bounded over so he could hug his mother.

Arthur didn't understand what had occasioned this outburst, but it seemed they had a plan.

****

The chamber was small and cosy, with deep armchairs, fluffy rugs, and numerous paintings on the walls. Will-o-the-wisps burned in the corners to provide lighting to the space, shedding their luminescence in uneven patches that changed into moving shadows re-enacting events of courtly life, dances, and pantomimes.

Arthur was gazing in wonder at the changing images when Gwen stepped into the chamber.

Merlin, who had been sprawling on one of the armchairs, straightened up, though his cravat now sat completely askew and his hair stood up in tufts. His parents, seated in slightly more elegant chairs which faced their son, exchanged a look of wry amusement at the state of him. Arthur could see exasperation warring with intense pride on their faces. He smothered a smile at the warm feeling it brought him.

Gwen curtsied in front of the King and Queen. She did not appear too flustered to be in the royal presence, which told Arthur she’d had such encounters before. “I came as soon as I was summoned, Your Highnesses.” She bit her lip and added, “I was wondering why but naturally I rushed here as soon as I could. Because that's what you do when the royals want you. I'm still a bit curious but I know how to be patient.” She blushed. “Well, you see.”

The Queen smiled softly. “We need your assistance, Gwen.”

Gwen bobbed a second, and deeper curtsey. “Whatever Your Highnesses wish.”

In a flutter of costly garments, the King stood. “This mission is highly important, my dear lass. And yet it’s also dangerous. You have been a treasured member of the royal household for years but know that we will not force you to do anything. This is a request from your King, not an order.”

Gwen looked from the King to Merlin, her cheeks hollowing and her eyes acquiring a worried cast. “I see.” After a moment of reflection, she gave a decisive nod. “Whatever it is, I'll do it.”

“That’s very good but let us tell you what we’re asking before you agree to anything,” the King said, observing Gwen sharply. “We need you to try to infiltrate Nimueh's ranks.”

“We'd do it ourselves,” Merlin added quickly. “But she knows us, and she would surely detect any spells geared at changing our looks. They're so powerful, they ooze magic. Besides some of them entail killing the person you want to assume the likeness of and we don't want that, do we?”

Gwen exhaled then nodded determinedly. “So I'll pretend I'm one of her neophytes?”

“Yes.” Merlin sent her a reassuring look. “And learn whatever you can about what happened to Reverend Fisher. I think you know what we suspect.”

Gwen's pointed ears twitched, but she nodded. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Ideally, you’ll overhear Nimueh confess to his murder, dear,” the Queen told her. “We believe she will boast of this accomplishment to potential new recruits. It exhibits her power, and her belief that the cult of the Triple Goddess should stand above all other theologies. She rules through fear. What better way to frighten your followers than to show how far you are willing to go for your faith?”

“And once I have managed it?” Gwen cocked her head.

“We'll have what we want.” The King rubbed his hands together. “We get you out of there, and our soldiers take over. Well then, Guinevere, now you know what we’re asking of you, will you try? You won’t be totally unprotected. Merlin has a means to keep an eye on you which should slip by Nimueh’s notice. You’ll be by yourself there, but not alone.”

Gwen looked frightened but determined. After a deep, fortifying breath, she nodded. Merlin grinned and reached out to take her hands, giving them an encouraging squeeze. Her face lit up at the gesture.

“Then we're ready,” the Queen said, her eyes searching those of the other people in the room. “Our plan is set.”

 

*****

The grass and bushes were high. A wall of canes shielded them from the waters of the lake, which softened the earth at their feet. Dragonflies hopped about; worms wriggled in the dark brown soil. The moon shone on them, rendering the landscape visible for some distance.

Merlin gave Gwen the crystal. It was oblong, with five facets and a pointed edge. “This will allow us to see what you see, hear what you hear.”

Gwen hung the chain the crystal was attached to from her neck and peered at it once it was in place. “You’re sure it will work?”

“I’m certain.” Merlin put both hands on her shoulders. “I magicked it myself.”

Gwen fidgeted with the pendant she now wore. “So I’m to listen for talk about the murder.”

Arthur nodded his head. “We need a confession.”

“The crystal will absorb all that goes on around it,” Merlin said. “Then we can access the scenes again through scrying. And remember we'll see and hear everything that happens to you. If something goes wrong, we'll know, and we’ll be there in moments to rescue you.”

Gwen made a brave face and looked at Merlin, gripping his hands. “I know you're the most powerful warlock in all of Fae. I trust you, Merlin.” 

Arthur leaned in and kissed Gwen on the forehead. “And I trust you, my brave lady. On behalf of me and my entire order, thank you for doing this.” Gwen blushed at the praise.

“Remember, we’ll be nearby, hidden from your sight, but there. We’ll practically be within shouting distance,” Merlin added.

Merlin had argued fiercely with his father and mother over his decision to accompany Gwen to the Isle. The monarchs understood the need to place their subjects in risky situations for the good of the land, but Merlin was not prepared to risk Gwen. Sending any soldiers in with her would be impossible without the strongest of magic to mask both their presence as well as the cloaking magic, so Merlin was the obvious choice to accompany her. And Arthur would not be left behind. Arthur, backed by the sovereigns, had shared their findings and their plan with the Bishop and received his consent as well as his fervent prayers for their success.

After each giving Gwen a final hug, Merlin and Arthur set off in their own small boat, except rather than oars, it was powered by Merlin’s magic. Despite the strong shielding spell placed on them, Arthur felt the need to remain crouched in the prow, scanning the shoreline for anyone who might see them and raise an alarm. The little skiff reached the Isle and nestled among the tall reeds, twins to those they had just left behind on the far shore. They disembarked silently, jogging up from the shore and into the dense wood beyond. There, they found an ancient tree covered in moss where they could sit undisturbed.

Merlin picked up a jagged mirror that didn't reflect any image. Arthur leant in to observe as Merlin incanted. Fog swirled in the mirror, and when it thinned, they saw Gwen, watched as she rowed steadily across the lake, came upon the shore, and tied the boat. Arthur settled himself comfortably next to Merlin, who angled his body so that they could both see what the mirror showed them. The intimacy of their arrangement was not lost on Arthur, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to shin. He shook his head of fanciful thoughts and focused instead on Gwen’s progress.

Once she was safely on the shore, three cowled women appeared. When they lowered their hoods, Arthur could see intricate tattoos covering their faces. Their robes were red and flowed like blood off their bodies. The torques around their necks were thick and golden.

After Gwen had made an obeisance, the woman closest to her spoke. “What brings you here, pilgrim?”

“I am drawn to the cult of the Triple Goddess,” Gwen answered. “I believe in her and in her powers and wish to be welcomed as an adherent.”

“This is a hard road you choose,” the three women spoke in unison, their voices fusing together. “But if you want to join our number, follow us.”

Gwen visibly screwed up her courage and followed them uphill, passing under the same canopied archway that Arthur had gone under, and emerging upon a straight road that took her to a grouping of wooden huts. Gwen was ushered into the largest of them.

A fire burned in the middle of the room, sending sparks high. Around it a group of women sat; foremost was Nimueh. She had lost some of her hair decoration, and her dress was much more sombre than the one she'd worn when Arthur saw her, but she had the same fiery expression, which was not focused on Gwen.

“What brings you here, girl?”

Gwen bowed. “I wish to become a priestess, My Lady.”

Nimueh narrowed her eyes. “Why now? You're no youth. I'd say you were well past the age when the Goddess calls out to her chosen ones.” Merlin and Arthur exchanged wary glances, but Gwen continued smoothly.

“I felt her calling in my younger years, my lady, and that call grew stronger as the years passed me by. I was prevented from coming to you sooner, but now I am here where I belong,” Gwen said, keeping her posture diminutive. “I could wait no longer. I believe in the Triple Goddess and all that she speaks through you.”

Nimueh's eyes glinted with pleasure at this. “I see. But that's true of many Fae and yet they're not allowed to join our ranks. Only the purest may succeed.”

“Yes, of course,” Gwen said. “I only ask the chance to prove my worth to you.”

“You shall get that chance, girl.” Nimueh's jaw tightened in challenge. “But not tonight. Tonight we are celebrating. It is unusual, but I suppose you may join us.”

Gwen bowed deeply again. “Thank you, my lady! What joyous event are we honouring?”

Nimueh's mouth twisted into a smirk, “the good riddance of a pest.”

On hearing her response, Merlin gasped and dug an elbow into Arthur’s side, meeting his glance with wide eyes. Arthur elbowed him right back and nodded at the mirror. “Pay attention,” he hissed. Gwen arriving and ending up in the middle of a meal with Nimueh was uncanny luck. With the frightening woman so close to Gwen, they needed to watch her every move.

One of Nimueh's acolytes, a girl with straight sandy hair and a white-powdered face guided Gwen over to a seat by the fire. She was given a drink that came from a tall wooden cup and some simple foods served on a wide leaf. Merlin and Arthur watched as Gwen ate and drank sparingly and listened to the conversations going on around her. She was avidly listening herself, as if she was trying to adjust to her surroundings.

From what they could judge, the main subject of conversation was the ceremonies that would take place in the following weeks. As the drinks flowed, tongues were loosened.

“Thank the goddess no blasphemer will mar the proceedings,” one acolyte said.

“Blasphemer?” Gwen asked guilelessly. “How could there be such a thing?”

“They come from another land,” the acolyte replied. “That's why they're evil.”

Looking from the acolyte to Nimueh, Gwen nodded slowly. “I've heard talk of them. Of mortals coming to Fae.”

Nimueh slammed down her drinking vessel, causing some of the contents to spill over. “They're an abomination. You should not speak of them.”

“Oh no.” Gwen shook her head from side to side. “I know. I even fear their presence so.”

“You do good to fear them,” Nimueh said, sliding her finger through her spilled drink then sucking on it. “But you should no longer do so. They're gone.”

“But what if they come back!” Gwen was wide-eyed, as if sheer terror was overpowering her. Arthur cringed, hoping Gwen hadn’t gone too far.

“Do not be troubled, girl.” Nimueh's eyes blazed like fire. “They will never return to blaspheme against our beloved Goddess. I made sure.”

Merlin nodded at Arthur. This was what they had been waiting for. Gwen must have known it too.

“Forgive me my lady, but are you certain?” Gwen maintained a terrified expression. “There was talk, in my village, of a mortal man’s God who could rival the Triple Goddesses power and who was worthy of all worship.”

“What else did you hear? Tell me, girl! How have they tainted your mind?”

“I’m sorry.” Gwen was kneeling now. “I did not believe them. It’s why I have come here to the true cult. They said… they said their one God would swallow the Triple Goddess whole, that the sacred words spoken by her missionaries would devour her teachings. Th-that the truth of their religion would gorge itself on the falsehoods of all others. They frightened me so, my lady! Please say they cannot harm us here on this blessed Isle.”

Nimueh's face reddened with anger as Gwen related the tale. “Your fear does you credit, girl. But there are paths you can never return from, as the Goddess said.”

“Paths?” Gwen whispered, though easily heard. Every woman in the room had remained silent throughout their exchange.

“The paths of death,” Nimueh declared, conjuring a mist that almost engulfed the flames of the hearth. “I sent the blasphemers on those paths with no regret.”

Gwen scooted back away from the hearth and the mist. “You killed them?” Her eyes rounded. “I mean, I approve. N-not that you need my approval, of course, but I am glad to know they cannot swallow us whole or chew on our bones, or whatever other impious things their lying God wanted them to do. Oh, my lady, it was such a bold move.” Despite the tension of the moment, Arthur smiled at Gwen’s performance. Her characteristic babbling served her well here, and she was smart enough to appeal to Nimueh’s pride.

“I am bold,” Nimueh affirmed, speaking to the entire room now. “It was I who spoke the curse that ended the life of the mortal priest who polluted our world with his filthy presence. It was I who commanded the wyvern to eliminate the fool who thought to continue his profane work.” Nimueh stood, her robe draping itself along the lines of her legs. “Did you doubt my power girl?”

“No, no,” Gwen said, shaking her head to suit her words.

“Know this! To truly serve the Triple Goddess, you must eliminate all doubt. You must offer your faith as well as your obedience. You must shunt aside your fears and become warriors in her name, as I have become.”

Nimueh extracted a dagger from the sheath one of her acolytes was wearing. She held it up, so it caught the moonlight and glinted. Nimueh walked over to Gwen.

“Will you set aside your fears and become a warrior, girl?” she demanded.

“I will,” answered Gwen.

“Will you fight for the goddess?”

“I will!” Gwen answered more forcefully.

“And will you kill for the goddess?” Nimueh smiled cruelly as Gwen’s face fell.

“Kill?” Gwen’s voice trembled. “I am new to her teachings, but I did not know she would call on me to kill in her name.”

Nimueh pointed to one of her disciples, a young girl with an innocent face and droopy hair. With a snarled curse from Nimueh, the girl was frozen in place, only her eyes capable of movement. Nimueh pushed the dagger into Gwen's hands. “You said that you believe the Triple Goddess speaks her will through me. Kill Drea and prove you are prepared to become a warrior in her name.”

“But she follows the goddess, too.” Gwen faltered.

Across the Isle, Merlin and Arthur had begun moving steadily closer to the settlement, their hearts in their throats as they strode through the darkness, still following the actions through the scrying mirror. There was a slim chance that Gwen could get out of this on her own, but the situation was becoming more fraught.

Nimueh seemed to grow taller, larger, her voice deeper. Her frown etched deep lines in her forehead, like furrows traced by the most ancient of ploughs. “Do not question my will. Do it!”

“Your will, or the will of the goddess?” Gwen managed to ask.

“They are one in the same!” Nimueh shouted. “If you will not kill for the goddess, then prepare to die for your lack of faith. Choose now.”

The dagger shook in Gwen's hands, as Gwen herself trembled. She took a few steps towards the clearly terrified Drea. Step by step, Gwen moved closer and raised the dagger. Panic filled Drea’s eyes and tears coursed down Gwen's cheeks.

Nimueh stood by, a smile curling her lips.

Sobbing, Gwen looked at Nimueh, pleading in her gaze.

“Do it!” Nimueh commanded.

Gwen turned towards Drea, hoisted the dagger some more, till it shook like the needle in a crazed compass, and dropped it. “I can't.” Gwen sobbed till her chest heaved. “I can't.”

Nimueh sighed and shook her head, releasing Drea with a wave of her hand before addressing Gwen.

“Then prepare to die.”

 

****

 

 

Two files of women armed with scythes walked Gwen, who looked dirty and bedraggled, her hair undone, to the executioner's block. It was a round stone stuck in the ground and stained with old blood in numerous places. Two crows sat alongside it, their beady eyes as black as the night, reflecting the events they were witnessing. They preened and puffed themselves up, shaking out their wings. 

The guardwomen made Gwen kneel. Her dress, red and white, got stained with mud. Her ringlets drooped in the light rain.

Nimueh, dressed in white, with a headdress of feathers, came stalking towards the chopping block. She had an axe in her hand that had an ornate handle.  
From just outside the tent, Arthur and Merlin looked at the scene of Gwen being dragged outside into the open, then at each other.

“Now?” Arthur mimed the words.

Jaw locked, Merlin moved his head up and down, and stood. Out of thin air he conjured a sword. It had a bronze hilt with a cross guard and runes that ran the length of the fuller. He handed it to Arthur.

Arthur widened his eyes. “What is this?”

“Forged in dragon's breath,” Merlin breathed, before charging towards Nimueh and her acolytes.

For a split second after Merlin had gone, Arthur scrutinized his weapon. It was heavy and fine, a gorgeous blade. Barring duels, which were outlawed, and the custom of those in the military, swordsmanship wasn't commonly practiced in England anymore. Furthermore, Arthur was a man of the cloth and had been raised to forge peace not to fight. But he hadn’t always been destined for the church, and his father had indulged in the old aristocratic ways, permitting his only son to learn to duel with slim, harmless epees which were nothing like the fierce weapon now in his hand.

Gwen had taken a tremendous risk helping them and had performed brilliantly. She had cared for him all throughout his stay in Fae and helped nurse him back to health. She was a big part of why he felt so at home now in this strange world. He had to save her. And Merlin. Merlin, who was brave and lovely and running headfirst into terrible danger, carrying a piece of Arthur’s heart with him. Releasing a war cry, Arthur ran towards the fray.

Still speeding towards Nimueh, Merlin held his hand out, intoning words in no language Arthur knew. The acolytes surrounding Gwen stumbled and fell away from her, and Gwen took the chance to scramble away.

Hearing Merlin’s words, Nimueh whipped her head around to spot him. Her face, an inscrutable mask up to then, morphed in a rictus of rage. She blasted Merlin with lightning.

Hit in the chest, Merlin went flying backwards.

Arthur shouted for him, but he couldn't help him, since a cloaked warrior came at him, brandishing a sword that looked as sturdy as the one Arthur was wielding. To avoid the slash, Arthur lifted his own blade and parried the attack. Metal screeched, and as each blade slithered across the other, sparks flew. The warrior drew back, her bare feet leaving imprints in the ground, and then moved in close again, aiming for Arthur's flank.

Not wishing to be skewered, Arthur jumped back. The warrior's blade sliced air, unbalancing its wielder. Making use of her lack of balance, Arthur kicked out at her then hit her temple with the pommel of his sword. She passed out cold.

With a moment to look about himself, Arthur searched for Merlin. He had risen from the dirt and was locked in battle with Nimueh, sending blasts of lightning her way, while being hit by a few of Nimueh's own making. Merlin was breathing fast, his clothing ruined where the fabric had singed at her first strike, the skin reddened and blistered underneath.

But merely being struck by lightning didn't slow him down. Merlin called down thunder and blew small storms at Nimueh.

Arthur dispatched several more acolytes who came at him with swords. His fledgling skills were enhanced by the extraordinary sword Merlin had given him. The sword was an extension of his arm, seemed attuned to his will, and explosively responsive to any danger directed at Arthur. A number of the girls had outright fled from the battle, and Arthur saw Gwen with a sword of her own holding off some others who wished to gang up on Arthur. Her moves were clumsy but effective. Arthur had the chance to look again at the fight between Merlin and the High Priestess.

Pummelled by the elements, Nimueh was bowed, but she didn't cease incanting. She hurled spells and curses at Merlin, repelling him at every turn.

Arthur wanted to help. His heart twisted for Merlin. Worry gnawed at him and distracted him. If something happened to Merlin, Arthur felt he would break. It was strange. They hadn't known each other long and most of the time they had been together they had collaborated under false pretences. But Arthur was still on tenterhooks, still wishing he could interpose himself between Merlin and Nimueh and save him from harm. As a mortal, he didn't have the power to directly challenge such a magically powerful foe. But he could help. And he would.

No sooner had he thought this than he had to put his commitment to the test, for another of Nimueh's warriors was coming at him. With a battle cry she hurled herself at him, rotating a spiked Morningstar at him.

As the attached ball threatened to connect with his head, Arthur ducked and dodged. As he wasn't clobbered, he persevered with this strategy. He had just danced free, when he realised he couldn't go on like that. His sword was of little use against her weapon and skill with which she wielded it, he couldn’t get past her reach to wound her.

Instead, Arthur ran towards a hillock, the warrior chasing after him. When Arthur had the positional advantage, he turned around. The woman gave the Morningstar a spin, aiming it at Arthur's belly. If it connected, it would punch holes right through him. Arthur arched his body away and sliced with his sword in a wide arc. Blood blooming on her skin, the warrior staggered, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fainted. Arthur looked around for his next opponent, but all the other acolytes were either on the ground or were standing harmlessly, watching their priestess battle the Fae prince.

Arthur turned his attention to that battle just in time to see Merlin being knocked off his feet by a huge ball of power, whose whitish rays nearly blinded him. Merlin panted, tried to pick himself up but failed, his body slumping back to the ground.

“Do you yield?” Nimueh stalked across the plain, moving towards the recumbent Merlin. “Haven't you tasted enough of my power?”

Merlin grimaced. “Power? You call that power? I call it a tantrum.”

Nimueh grunted; her eyes went red. “If you leave me and mine alone, and if you promise to execute the priest, whom I apparently failed to dispose of, I'll let you scurry back to your family. I suppose they still want their heir to the throne.”

“Arthur is worth ten of you!” Merlin said through gritted teeth, his face stained with blood and grit. “And I will never give up on my cause. You murdered a man. You need to face justice.”

Nimueh laughed a brittle laugh. “Killing a mortal is no different than treading on a bug, their lives just as worthless. You speak of justice? Who are your parents to decide what is justice? When our rights are challenged by foreign invaders who have no respect for our beliefs and who'd swap them out for theirs? Why are we to accept that?”

His chest rising and falling quickly, Merlin panted, but still rose shakily to his feet. “Because the power of life and death doesn't belong to the Fae.”

“But it does belong to the Triple Goddess.” Nimueh began rotating her hand, an incandescent ball of fire starting from it. “And I speak for her.”

Just as Nimueh prepared to hurl her fireball at Merlin, Merlin stretched an arm towards the heavens, his head thrown back and his whole body straining upwards. Thundered boomed. The sky, just beginning to be lit by the dawn, cracked in two, like a veil parting and showing only inky blackness. With lightning at his fingertips, responding to his call, Merlin lobbed a bolt at Nimueh. As the giant ball of fire rolled towards him, it met Merlin's white lightning and was overwhelmed.

A savage scream ripped out of Nimueh's throat as Merlin's lightning came for her in a wall of interconnected bolts. They impacted her full force, and her wail echoed across the Isle before she went abruptly silent and fell into a heap. A heartbeat later, Merlin collapsed like a puppet whose strings were cut.

Arthur rushed to Merlin, cradling his body as Merlin had once cradled Arthur. “You fool,” Arthur said, holding Merlin tight. “Why did you do that?”

“I had to let her ramble on so I could get enough of my wind back to blast her.” Merlin's breathing was fast and ragged. “I'm fine. Don't worry.”

“You're not fine!” Merlin had singed hair, burn marks across his chest, and scratches everywhere. “You're a mess.”

“I'm Fae, Arthur.” Merlin winked tiredly. “I heal fast.” His face reddened, but not from his injuries. Patting Arthur's hand he added, “But I'm glad you're concerned.”

Arthur's face burned as though he had been hit by Merlin's lightning. And in a way he thought he had. He coughed and stammered but before he could say anything compromising, Gwen came running towards them. She was dishevelled, but she had a relieved smile on her face. She crashed on her knees by them, took Merlin's hand, and leant into Arthur.

“We did it! We really did it. Thank you, both of you, for saving me,” Gwen said. “Oh Merlin, you gave me such a fright.”

Whatever else Gwen might have said was interrupted by a storm of sound and colour. The air rent apart and a troop of soldiers came marching out of the tear. They had puffy doublets that came in square blocks of colour, tights that reflected the same, upturned shoes and caps a little like a jester's. To add to the fanfare, they had bows and flaming swords, and together they strode towards Nimueh, whose limp form they picked up. Those who carried her turned and stomped back towards the portal that had led them to the Isle. The rest spread out to take control of the scattered acolytes, and to guard their prince.

A familiar figure had followed the soldiers out of the portal, and he approached them quickly, a medicine bag in his hands.

“Gaius!” Gwen called out, delighted to see the physician, and helped him kneel next to Merlin.

As Gaius began to treat Merlin’s injuries, Arthur shifted to the side to give the physician more room to work. Merlin flailed his hand towards him until Arthur caught it between his own and held on for all he was worth, smiling down at Merlin. Merlin’s answering grin and happy sigh was worth the knowing look and giggle from Gwen.

*****

Garlands and wreaths hung crosswise above the ballroom, intersecting and forming a web of flowers and greenery punctuated by pink dog roses, which released golden pollen down onto the shiny marble floors and on the assembled guests. Behind and above the twin thrones jutted a balcony on which gilded harps sounded, their chords sounding without being stroked by any hand. The balcony windows were open to the white-capped mountains and the cerulean sky.

Inside pixies batted their wings, sparkling dust floating behind them with each flutter. Gnomes climbed up onto tables and the backs of chairs, onto plinths and even hung from chandeliers so as to have a better view of the proceedings. Ethereally beautiful Fae ladies mingled with each other, their dresses trailing along the floor, hair peeking out from cone hats which sported long veils that shimmered in the dusky light. Fae lords sported rich velvet doublets and hose, covered by coloured cloaks that vied with each other for brilliance. Druids garbed in all the rich colours of the earth mingled among their more brightly dressed fellows, their serenity adding a gravity to the gathering.

Liveried servants carried trays the length of small trees, loaded with all the fancy delicacies one could imagine. Juicy roasts releasing spicy scents, perfectly oval quail eggs, and cakes with seven layers and tall frosting.

Merlin elbowed Arthur when the trumpeters arched back, their instruments up in the air, sounding a flourish. “Mum and da are about to make an entrance.”

Arthur smiled at his casual reference to the rulers and waited for the monarchs' arrival.

On the last trill of the trumpet, the far doors opened and in strode the King and Queen, dressed more splendidly than Arthur had ever seen. A chorus of sublime voices sang out from everywhere and nowhere at once, filling the chamber with a melody which sank into his marrow and stirred up his emotions. Arthur caught his breath at the sheer magnificence. King and Queen both wore their finest crowns, which sparkled in the light, their trains born by pixies, and were proceeded by fairies strewing petals in their path. Arthur turned to Merlin with wide eyes and mouth agape. Merlin grinned right back at him, nodding with pride at the spectacle. Arthur owned that the Fae royals really knew how to make an entrance!

Still holding hands, the royals seated themselves on their respective thrones. King Balinor smiled at his wife, then stepped down the dais. Hand on his heart, he began to speak.

“Dear guests, we are gathered here to celebrate the new-found peace that now reigns in this Kingdom.” He surveyed his audience, who had grown silent and attentive, with only the occasional whisper to pepper the silence. “It has been several months now since the High Priestess of the Triple Goddess revealed herself to be unworthy of our trust. Many of you were present for her trial and sentencing. I can confirm that she is presently serving her life sentence in Castle Doom.”

The mood in the room swung from merriment to concern. Fae, Arthur had learned, didn't typically trouble themselves with day-to-day affairs of state. Instead, they glided through life with little to perturb or worry them. Nimueh’s actions had forced their focus onto current events. Arthur had spent much of the time since her downfall travelling with Gwen -- and after he had recovered sufficiently, with Merlin -- talking to the Fae people about what had happened and trying to make up for Reverend Fisher’s heavy-handed zealotry. Arthur had gently introduced his faith and won friends, if not converts.

The King went on. “But, as you all know, the cult of the Triple Goddess is very important to this Kingdom.” Murmurs of agreement sounded throughout the room.

“Therefore, though we have exiled those of Nimueh's votaries who took an active role in her ruination of the cult, we cannot behave in the same way towards all of her followers. The cult of the Triple Goddess must continue.”

Applause echoed across the vast ballroom.

“But it cannot thrive without a High Priestess,” King Balinor said. “And Nimueh cannot be that Priestess anymore. In view of this we have chosen a new prelate.”

Waves of curiosity flowed through the audience. They spoke sotto voce to each other, commenting about the King's words, guessing who the new priestess would be, whether she would perform her well or fail like Nimueh had.

The King extended a hand towards a door at the side of the dais. As he spoke an opening charm, the door swung open.

A woman entered the ballroom through the open door. Her hair was as darkly raven as the plumage of a crow, flowing down in luscious ringlets to her waist. Her eyes were green like emeralds, her skin porcelain and her jaw strong. She was beautiful but more than that, she emanated an aura of power. Even Arthur, as magicless as he was, sensed it.

“Morgana,” the King intoned, “do you accept this most sacred charge?”

Her hair dancing as she tipped her chin upwards, Morgana responded. “I do.”

The King handed her a crosier and an ancient book which Morgana cradled protectively against her chest. “Then let it be known, from this day forward, Morgana shall be High Priestess of the Cult of the Triple Goddess.”

Morgana turned around so that the gathered crowd could see the symbols of power. The crowd erupted into cheers, bringing a wide smile to Morgana’s beautiful face, transforming the seemingly untouchable goddess into a grinning girl. Arthur saw Gwen pull Morgana into a hug and wondered at the connection. He would have to schedule a meeting with the new High Priestess soon.

Once the cheers died down, the King clapped his hands together and called out, “And now it's time for dancing.”

Merlin turned towards Arthur, bowed, and offered him his hand. Blushing, he said, “Will you do me the honour?”

Sweet strains of music filled the room and couples around them started dancing, moving towards and then away from each other, taking short hops, and matching palms over the heads of the other couples. This was nothing like a waltz, nothing like any dance Arthur had ever danced. Like Merlin, Arthur reddened, heat flooding his face. “Shouldn't you be dancing with some Fae noblewoman whose hand in marriage you wish to win?”

Merlin giggled. “Are you basing your knowledge of the Fae on human fairy tales? Because we don't work like that.” Ducking his head, Merlin sobered. He shifted his weight from side to side, and scratched at his neck, loosening the collar of his refined doublet, which had a starched collar and frills. “I want to dance with you because I like you, Arthur.”

Arthur's heart clenched, and his breath escaped him. He looked into Merlin's blue eyes and some of their warmth lit Arthur from the inside out. Could Merlin feel the same way Arthur had come to feel? Arthur had a burning wish to be close to Merlin, to share his space and his touch. Though he didn't know the steps of the dance and was sure to make a fool of himself, he felt himself capable of daring to enjoy the promised closeness, of seizing the day. With a smile, he said. “Then I can't say no.”

Merlin let out a breath and laughed. “You scared me there. I thought you would refuse.”

To the sound of the tune being played, Merlin led him to the middle of the ballroom. He bowed deeply before starting to dance, moving to the music that surrounded them.

Arthur watched the movements carefully, then followed suit. The steps took them apart and then close again, Merlin's palm against his as they spun around.

“I hope you're enjoying yourself,” Merlin murmured into Arthur’s ear when the dance brought them into each other’s arms. 

Arthur clung to Merlin, chest to chest, his warmth seeping over to him. “I am. I’ve learnt so much.”

The music took them apart. They mixed with other partners, one of whom was Gwen, resplendent in her finery and partnering with a literal knight in shining – from pauldron to helmet – armour. She winked at Arthur and joy painted itself on her lovely features. Arthur could only smile at her before the movement of the dance shifted him over, causing him to spin about with other dancers, in twosomes and foursomes. In this company he took a complete turn about the room and only then rejoined Merlin.

When they were close again, Merlin placed his hand on Arthur's flank, sliding softly up and down. Arthur noted that no other dancer’s hands were positioned that way. Emotion warmed him through and through as he slid his hand up to copy Merlin’s caress.

Too soon, they twisted apart, hopped, swapped couples, then came back together. This time Merlin was even closer than before. Arthur could see all the flecks in his eyes and count the laugh lines around them. Warmth flooded him, and he almost didn't hear Merlin when he said, “Learnt?”

Arthur inclined his head, recalling what he had tried to put into words while in Merlin’s arms. “That's the right word, yes. I've come to re-evaluate my position here.”

Merlin arched both eyebrows in confusion and Arthur continued quickly.

“Though Nimueh was deranged in her hatred, she had a point. I paid heed to it.”

A new light of understanding suffused Merlin's eyes. “So how did she influence you?”

“She said we had no right to bring our religion to Fae.” Arthur let in a breath. This was a tricky subject and he hoped he did it justice. Canvassing it while dancing wasn't the best option, but he would have to make do, because he wanted Merlin to see. “While I am still deeply committed to my God--” Would Merlin even understand why? “--I can no longer persuade others to believe in him.”

As they were parted by the tide of dancers, Merlin waited for Arthur to rejoin him. He gripped Arthur far more tightly than needed for the dance. “But that's the whole reason for your presence here.”

“Yes, it was.” The music wavered and trilled, dulcimers and lutes joining the rebecs. “I'm resigning my position as resident missionary.” Merlin stood stock still in the middle of the dancefloor, heedless of the couples still swirling about. Arthur grimaced at how bluntly he’d shared this news. His face colouring further, Merlin grasped Arthur's hand and pulled him to the side of the room, and into the relative seclusion of an alcove.

“Arthur,” he breathed out. His lip wobbled. “Does this mean you'll go back to the mortal world? To England?” Arthur lifted his hands to Merlin’s face, his thumbs caressing those cheekbones which were now so dear to him.

“As if I could leave you.” Arthur spoke nearly under his breath. He lowered his hands to Merlin’s shoulders and squeezed them in reassurance.

“I've exchanged correspondence with the Foreign Office and they’ve agreed to letting me become the first ambassador to Fae.”

Merlin’s whole face brightened until his smile shone like the sun. “So, you're staying,” he said breathlessly.

“Well, I’ll need to get the official approval of the King and Queen of Fae first,” Arthur teased.

“Oh, they’ll approve all right.” Merlin hummed under his breath. “I mean to convince them.”

Arthur's heart took delight at the knowledge that Merlin wanted him there. The notion made him shiver and warmed him at the same time. “Does it matter to you very much if I stay?”

Merlin wrapped an arm around Arthur's middle. “Yes, Arthur. It matters very much indeed.”

Arthur felt on fire. “Then I suppose I shall stay.” He tried for a breezy declaration, overwhelmed at the strength of his feelings. To be honest, at the moment nothing could tear him away from Fae.

Merlin snorted. “You suppose? You can go, if you're not keen.”

“Now don't put words in my mouth, Merlin.” Arthur grinned.

“I'm merely sussing out your intent, Ambassador.”

“And what have you determined, Prince Merlin?”

“That perhaps you'd like to come to my chambers?” Merlin whispered, his mouth grazing Arthur's ear, sending a shiver of delight down to his toes.

“I should be delighted, your highness,” Arthur replied. “I'm very curious as to the layout of a Fae prince's chamber.”

“Well, since architecture interests you so much,” Merlin said, tugging on Arthur's hand. “Come with me.”

****

Merlin's chambers were situated up the highest turret dominating the castle. They reached them via a system of spiral staircases made of stone that went up and up like a never-ending accordion. The set of rooms itself was Spartan compared to the guest chamber Arthur had occupied while he was ill. The ante-chamber sported a table and a set of velveteen chairs. The bedroom was full of strange odds and ends. Crystal balls and wands lay scattered on a small desk stuck in a corner, cloaks and capes hung from a clothes horse. A bedazzled gauntlet lay on the floor while an ornate dagger had been left on the nightstand. Arthur would have to ask whether they were as magical as the sword he'd been given to fight Nimueh. A baby gryffin whose plumage was still rough sat on a perch next to the balcony and observed the intruders with a mistrustful air

The only concession to comfort and normalcy were the hefty fireplace, which was alight tonight, and the wide bed. It wasn't canopied, but the mattress was layered and soft.

Merlin went to the refreshment table and poured Arthur a measure of a pink concoction.

Arthur put up a questioning eyebrow.

“It's a drink made from the Tree of Wisdom's fruit,” Merlin told him. “It’s the most highly prized beverage in all of Fae.”

Arthur couldn't recall anything about such a tree and didn't care to at the moment. “What does it do?”

“It doesn’t do anything,” Merlin said, giving him a glass. “It's just sweet and refreshing.”

Arthur took a sip. It didn't taste like any substance he'd known before, but it wasn't displeasing. He could get used to it in time. “It’s good.” He watched Merlin drink deeply from his own cup. “Is it vintage?”

“Now that you mention it.” Merlin moved so close there was almost no distance between them. “It is.” He kissed Arthur, opening his mouth with his lips and tasting him with his tongue. “Though not the best year.”

Arthur reached over to place his glass on the mantelpiece. “Pity that. But I think you didn't quite catch all the flavour nuances. You should definitely re-evaluate.”

“You think so?” Merlin touched noses with Arthur, then lips. The contact was gentle at first, a matching of mouths, their contours. “Maybe further inspection is indeed needed.”

The kiss continued, soft but deep. The second Arthur parted his lips Merlin slipped his tongue between them. By then their tongues were thrusting together as though in battle. Merlin tasted warm and spicy, a little like his strange drink, mostly, Arthur deduced, like himself. It was sweet and hot and tempting. It made Arthur forget everything that had led to this place, even all notion of self. It made his heart take its cues from the wild tide annihilating everything, flooding every single pore of him. They kissed without regard to the need for air, their tongues tangling over and over in a mutual replay of affection. They were so close, Arthur was breathing Merlin, tasting him, holding him, learning him in a way that transcended the physical.

Merlin cupped his face, fingers gently mapping Arthur's features. He placed his arms around his neck, while Arthur dropped his hands to Merlin's waist, under his clothing, sliding them up, charting his back, his spine, bump by bump, crease by crease, pressing him close so he could feel flesh and bone, down to the last atom of him.

With hands that shook a little, Merlin divested Arthur of his coat and collar, of his cuffs and shirt. With his mouth gently open, he kissed Arthur's shoulder, forging a path that went up to his neck, which he bit and nibbled and sucked till all of Arthur's nerve endings sparked. All the solid parts of Arthur melted; his bones liquefied, his marrow boiled over.

He took in a shaky breath and let his fingertips roam across Merlin's back, as if he was playing piano blindly, as if he was teaching himself the contours of a drawing with its raised lines and spillings of paint. But this wasn't enough, not nearly. And though he could subsist on this alone, he needed more to thrive.

Merlin understood what Arthur wanted and, breathing fast now, took off his doublet and ripped open his shirt. Bare, his chest nearly shone it was so pale, darkened only by a dusting of hair at his chest. Arthur wanted to share words of admiration, but had little breath for anything other than kissing Merlin and touching him and making himself acquainted with the ins and outs of him.

Turning them around, Merlin piloted them away from the fire and towards his bed. Arthur sank on it with pleasure, the sheets cool under his back just as Merlin's body released warmth as it settled on top of him.

For a moment they looked each other in the eyes and smiled, heady with the moment, happy with the turn circumstance had taken to lead them here, together in a place as magical as Merlin's homeland.

Skimming his palms along Arthur's side, Merlin kissed down his chest, moving lower and lower as he eased his way down. In response Arthur' muscles tightened, and his breath was now coming sharper and faster as Merlin slid his hand down his front.

Spasming, Arthur's fingers sank into Merlin's mop of hair, the hold on his control wavering as Merlin placed soft, feathery kisses on his belly and his hip-bones, scraping his open mouth across them.

Arthur thrashed his head on the mattress, made fists of his hands. His heart beat in his temples and his thoughts fogged up. His feelings for Merlin, gradually increasing for some time, had now waxed beyond proportion till he had only one word to identify them. And that sensation he could honestly say he'd never experienced before.

With his hands Merlin unclasped Arthur's trousers, lowered them past his hips, then with Arthur's help, he took them off. He put his mouth on Arthur then, lavishing him with the warmth of itand his wet kisses, sending tingling waves to his body and heart, his breath hot, nearly scalding.

With an aching softness, Merlin covered him with his mouth, tended to him with the lightest of touches, then the wettest of them. Unable to take it all in without coming apart, Arthur lay one arm across his eyes and in the darkness let himself feel. Everything dissolved that wasn't Merlin, his presence perceived, if not seen. A sense of well-being spread throughout him, from head to toe, to hands and feet. Through his present rapture, there was still a spark he was chasing, a vital charge that he was envisioning but couldn't quite reach. His body strove for it and his lungs couldn't be fed with enough air. With questing hands Arthur pulled Merlin closer, so that he could push this to the utmost.

But Merlin drew back, making Arthur feel the stab of his loss. Arthur protested as much as he could as incoherent as he was. He pushed himself on his elbows and voiced his disappointment.

Flushed in the face, eyes filled with the softest feelings, Merlin smiled. He gave him a light shove, moved between his legs, removed his own breeches, and climbed on top of Arthur, so their bodies aligned, flooding Arthur with an even greater warmth, an untold longing.

“Trust me,” Merlin whispered as he traced Arthur's lips with his, breathed against his mouth, then gave him a poignant kiss that touched deep and broke the wholeness of Arthur in several places.

Touch burned hot as their bodies came into full contact. Heat flared between them as their forms converged, slipping in blazing sweat that fused them together. Merlin slid his hands up Arthur's corded thighs, whose muscles were bulging from the strain, and anchored his hands at Arthur's hips, speaking words of magic just as he entered him. He began to push slowly, and Arthur could do nothing else but move with him, rocking back and forth, as Merlin went deeper, lighting paths that worked to awaken him to pleasure everywhere, so that he was straining, pulsing.

Merlin pressed endlessly deeper within him, nestling there, the warmth of him expanding within Arthur, the consciousness of him softening Arthur's thoughts. And then with a twist of his hips, he nudged him just so and Arthur arched up into Merlin’s embrace, finding that elusive pinnacle of pleasure.

When Arthur blinked his eyes open, he saw Merlin tense, tendons roping, before relaxing his body as his own bliss caught him. Arthur watched the emotions streak across that much-loved face even as the fire whooshed up past the grate, butterflies blinked into life to hover round the bed, and tiny stars burst into light then extinguished themselves on the ceiling.

Arthur grinned and snuggled into Merlin’s sleepy embrace, his heart filled to bursting with love for the Fae in his arms and his magical world.

****

The small balcony had a balustrade and vertical rails that fattened in the middle before tapering at top and bottom. It overlooked the green valley demarcated by the road travelling up to the castle, the village spreading at its sides, and the steely mountains capped by snow and standing out against the vibrant colours of the morning sky. The air was early morning cool and smelled like edelweiss. Everything was still but for the flying doves and bluebirds and the stags battling each other at the foot of the rocky rise. Nobody had woken yet. No courtier had ventured outside the castle gates, no farmer had gone to market, and no fisherman had taken to angling in the river that crossed the plain.

Bare-chested, Arthur breathed in and shivered. The vista was beautiful, but he’d learned over the past few months that Fae could be bloody cold in the mornings, especially this high up in a castle on a hill, in the tallest turret of the keep.

Silent and barefoot, Merlin padded behind him, startling Arthur both with his presence and with a soft fleece blanket, which he wrapped around his shoulders.

“You're awake,” Arthur said, leaning into Merlin, who stood behind him, warm from the bed.

Merlin snorted. “I'm not a lazy daisy like you.”

“What!” Arthur let fake outrage colour his tone. “I was up before you.”

“Well, that was this morning,” Merlin said, wrapping his arms around him, lacing his fingers on Arthur's belly. “Usually I have a harder time to rouse you.”

Arthur craned his neck to place an off-centre kiss on Merlin's lips then gave him a saucy wink. “Not so.”

“Fie.” Merlin laughed. “I didn't mean it that way.”

Arthur listened to Merlin chuckling and grew quiet himself. He looked out to the vast horizon, breathed in and breathed out. He felt light and unencumbered.

“But really,” Merlin said, likely guessing his mood, “what's brought you out here?”

“It's nothing.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders and sighed, belying his words. “Truly.”

Merlin growled, his chest vibrating with it. “I don't believe you. Come on, out with it.”

“Nahh.”

“Yes.”

Merlin tickled him. Arthur would have put up a stronger resistance, but Merlin, the fiend, chose Arthur's sides as the target of his attack. That was Arthur's soft spot. It was clear Merlin had grown to know Arthur's body rather too well.

“Do you yield?”

“Never!”

Merlin went at his tickling in an even more efficient manner which provoked near-shrieks of laughter from Arthur. “Now? Do you yield?”

“All right, all right.” Arthur held his hands up. “I yield. I do.”

“So why…” Merlin drawled out, pushing his cold nose against the back of Arthur's neck. “--were you mooning out here all alone?”

“Not mooning,” Arthur grumbled. “I was just thinking…” Arthur took a big breath before speaking his mind. “That I love this place.” He swiped his arm towards the vista. “I really do love Fae. It's beautiful and magical.” As if to confirm Arthur's words a pair of red-crested griffins flew around the pinnacles on top of the turrets, leaving behind a red vapourish trail. “Not to be forgotten.”

“Why would you forget it?”

“I was thinking...” Arthur came out with the words slowly because he wasn't certain of them. “That eventually I’ll have to report back to England.”

“Ah.” Merlin's breath grazed Arthur's neck.

“Where you cannot follow,” he added, feeling Merlin tighten his grip. He took courage from the power of his embrace. “But I don't want to, not for a long time, maybe not ever.” He clamped his lips shut but then volleyed out the rest of his words in one outburst. “I want to stay.”

“You want to stay in Fae?” Merlin grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around, reading his expression for the truth. “Permanently? With me?” The last was spoken with wonder.

“Yes, permanently. And most certainly with you.” In a burst of inspiration, he pulled the starstruck Merlin back inside. Pushing the salt shaker firmly away from him, he lifted a piece of Fae-grown fruit from the ever-present bowl, and after saluting Merlin with it, took a big -- unsalted -- bite, grinning as the juice ran down his chin.

Merlin burst out laughing and practically tackled him into a tight hug, pressing them together body to body. After a long, lingering kiss he took a step back.

“Arthur, my sweet love. You're welcome to stay, for ever after.”

Joy pierced Arthur through and through like a jubilant arrow. He’d finally found his true love and his fantastical, magical home.

 

The End


End file.
